


The Mystery Under the Trapdoor

by unintelligiblescreaming



Series: gold and gleaming: the chosen one hermione au [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Canon Rewrite, Chosen One Hermione Granger, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hermione Granger is the Girl Who Lived, Hermione POV, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Plot, Slytherin Harry Potter, Updates Tuesdays and Fridays, What-If, not a huge deal but this includes black!hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintelligiblescreaming/pseuds/unintelligiblescreaming
Summary: A prophecy named one-year-old Hermione as the Chosen One, and when Voldemort came knocking, Hermione's mother tried to hit him with a table lamp. He laughed at her, killed her, and then he tried to kill her daughter. It didn't work out.Ten years later, Hermione Granger received a letter.





	1. Bonds of Blood

Mr. and Mrs. Granger lived in a quiet suburb outside London. Their house was surrounded by a white picket fence, and the bedroom looked out onto a small garden. In the mornings, the dawn filled the living room with golden light. There were no toy broomsticks zooming around above the carpet. There were no Portkeys hidden in the kitchen cupboards. When the postman came, the neighbor’s dog barked—there was nothing special about that. At night, they took turns picking classical melodies to help their one-year-old daughter fall asleep—and there was nothing special about that either, other than the special way that parents love their children. 

But when little Hermione heard Beethoven’s Bagatelle No. 25, she would rock happily in her cradle, and the song would keep playing even if the cassette player was switched off. When the neighbor’s dog barked too suddenly, she would erupt into tears, and the lightbulbs would shatter one by one.  
  
Mr. and Mrs. Granger were solid, practical people. When something unexplainable occurred, they would give each other bemused looks, and then they would carry on with their lives. What else could they do? Mrs. Granger could hardly tell her sister Leanne that dinner was delayed because a fit from her niece in her highchair had ended with the entire fridge vanishing with a _pop._  
  
These were not the only odd things to happen around little ‘Mione. There were other things too—things that they would never know.  
  
They never knew that an Order they’d never heard of had taken oaths to protect their child at all costs, and they never knew that every day for two months, that Order took turns watching their front door.  
  
They never knew that on certain days of the month, a tabby cat would sit stiffly on their front porch, glaring sternly at the street. On other days, a man with glasses and messy black hair would tuck himself under an Invisibility Cloak and wait silently beside their white picket fence. They never suspected that there was something out of the ordinary about the friendly black dog sniffing around their garden, or the cheerful man in a top hat that strolled around the neighborhood.  
  
One day, it was not the cat, or the stag, or the dog who was meant to guard them. On Halloween, 1981, it was a rat named Peter Pettigrew. The Grangers never knew that when Lord Voldemort came knocking, Pettigrew lowered his wand and stepped aside.  
  
Mr. Granger was downstairs when it happened. He got out a single wordless shout before a flash of green lightning hit him in the chest.  
  
Mrs. Granger had no wand, no understanding of what was happening, but she knew her child was in danger, so she grabbed the only weapon she could find—the lamp from the bedside table.  
  
When her husband’s murderer came through the bedroom door, he laughed. High, cold, echoing.  
  
“Stand aside, you foolish creature,” he chuckled, amused by her standing there, trembling, with a lampshade in her hand, as if that could hold him off. “Stand aside…”  
  
Mrs. Granger gritted her teeth and swung.  
  
For a moment, she was illuminated by a halo of green. And then she, too, fell.  
  
Voldemort approached the cradle, where the baby stared up at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending, and raised his wand.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The wizarding world celebrated that night, but the baby didn’t stop crying until dawn.  
  
  
*  
  
  
To the casual observer, Leanne Penchant was nothing like her sister.  
  
Leanne lived alone in a neat little rented flat, but her sister Maria lived with her husband and daughter in a suburban cottage. Leanne was quite plump, but her sister was not. Leanne loved cooking, but her sister saw it as no more than a tedious necessity. Leanne frowned more often than not, but her sister was always smiling, her teeth poking out over her bottom lip.  
  
To anyone who knew them, however, it was an entirely different story.  
  
Leanne was just as sensible and down-to-earth as her sister, and they both loved working with their hands—her sister in the garden, Leanne in the kitchen. Both avoided conflict. Neither were particularly social, but both cared deeply for the friends and family they had. Both were fiercely loyal to the point of destruction. Their greatest flaw was that they always thought they knew better—a trait that, in some ways, they passed on to Hermione.  
  
The thing was, Leanne never wanted kids. She loved her little niece, but they had other relatives, and if it were not for the ancient protection that now flowed in her blood, she would probably have given Hermione to her father’s relatives, who were more than willing to take her in.  
  
But she kept her. She kept her because there was no one else who could, and she would not abandon her sister’s child—and so the bonds of blood were maintained, and the Girl-Who-Lived was safe.  
  
For her, magic would never be dancing teacups or wilted flowers bursting miraculously into life. For her, magic was a killer so frightening that no one dared to speak his name. Magic was a sombre woman in a green cloak knocking at her door, introducing herself as Minerva McGonagall, holding a crying baby and announcing that her sister had been murdered. Magic was a jagged scar on her niece’s forehead, stark white against dark skin.  
  
“You may notice strange things happening around her,” said Professor McGonagall.  
  
The baby was resting in a crib conjured from thin air, sound asleep, while Leanne sipped a cup of tea with trembling hands and tried to process the knowledge that her sister was gone.  
  
“You’ll see little hints of magic,” the professor said. “This is perfectly normal, and nothing to worry about.”  
  
The teacup slammed down in a rattle of china. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“It’s nothing harmful or dangerous, just—”  
  
Leanne gritted her teeth. “You said there were no bad effects from the curse. Just the scar.”  
  
Professor McGonagall looked surprised. “No, no, no. Outbursts of uncontrolled magic are perfectly normal for all young, untrained witches and wizards.”  
  
“You’re saying that Hermione—my niece—is one of _you_?”  
  
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The professor had already explained that there was a prophecy, the exact words unknown, that led the person they called You-Know-Who to believe that a one-year-old girl was somehow capable of defeating him. But the idea that Hermione was connected to the world that killed her parents, that she was a part of it… it made Leanne recoil in horror.  
  
“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall.  
  
“No. No, you have to put a stop to it.”  
  
“That would be impossible,” the professor said. “She was born with her magic, and it cannot be removed. It is a part of her heritage.”  
  
“If her heritage is something that killed her parents, then she doesn’t need any part of it,” said Leanne firmly.  
  
The professor pressed her lips into a straight line. “Her magical heritage is also what allowed her to survive that event, and to save the entirety of Wizarding Britain,” she said sharply. “The wizarding world is where she belongs. I suggest you get used to it.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
At age five, Hermione decided to ask a question.  
  
“Aunt Leanne,” she asked, eyes wide, “what were my parents like?”  
  
It was always Aunt Leanne, and sometimes Auntie, but never Mum or anything like it. Leanne raised the child as her own, but to take the title of mother from her sister… she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  
  
“They loved you very much,” Aunt Leanne said. “Maria liked gardening, and telling jokes, and Chinese takeout. She met David at school, and they liked taking long walks around the park. David liked cooking, especially with herbs they grew in their garden, and he was good with kids and animals.”  
  
Hermione nodded seriously and turned back to her book.  
  
From that point on, she asked questions about her parents every now and then, and the answer was always a little different every time. Sometimes she asked because she was interested in the answer, and sometimes she asked for the asking.  
  
When Hermione was three years old, Aunt Leanne read her a book about the Egyptian pyramids and all the treasures within. She was enraptured. After reading for half an hour, her aunt tucked her in, put the book back on its shelf, and turned off the lights.  
  
Aunt Leanne was halfway down the stairs when she heard the lamp click on again. She returned to Hermione’s room to find the book somehow open in front of her, pages waving gently of their own accord.  
  
She rushed forward and snatched away the book, scolding Hermione—“I said bedtime!”—and put it in another room. This time, she turned off the lights, shut the door, and then waited there with a pounding heart for an entire hour, listening for any further disturbance.  
  
Outbursts of magic didn’t happen often, but the thought of them haunted Aunt Leanne’s mind. When they did happen, a terrible fear sunk into her bones… she couldn’t stop thinking of that scar.  
  
She knew that eventually, Hermione would learn the truth. That professor had said that when she was eleven, she would have to attend some kind of school in order to control her magic, or otherwise it could spiral out of control. But until then, Aunt Leanne would fight like hell to keep her safe from that awful, dangerous world.  
  
_She’s just a child,_ Leanne thought, watching her play around the house. _She deserves a normal life._  
  
Hermione learned to read early, and once she did, she began to hunt knowledge like a cat hunts mice. If a book was ever in a place she couldn’t reach, it would not be for long, and if sometimes this happened in mysterious ways… well, she would think about it for a while, and eventually she’d decide that was just the way things worked, because what else was she supposed to conclude?  
  
When she was six, she got a hold of a pair of scissors and tried to cut her hair. When she got a look at her jagged, frizzy haircut in the bathroom mirror, she burst into tears, and when she had stopped crying long enough to take another look at herself, her hair had regrown to its previous length.  
  
Once when Aunt Leanne took her to the local library, she came back with a stack of books on astronomy and stargazing. When she read them, she became so excited that the little glow-in-the-dark stars scattered on her ceiling had rearranged themselves into accurate constellations.  
  
“Auntie, auntie!” she cried. “It’s Orion’s Belt!”  
  
She was an exceptionally bright child. After several meetings with the primary school principal in which Aunt Leanne inquired as to why Hermione’s assignments were so far below her learning level, she found her a different school where the teachers actually had the time and resources to devise a curriculum that could challenge her. It wasn’t easy to afford, but Aunt Leanne did her research, and after Hermione took a few tests and went through a few interviews, she qualified for enough scholarships to pay her tuition.  
  
She was the only black kid in that school. She figured that out around the same time she figured out that making friends was _hard_ , and for some reason no one wanted to be friends with her. She couldn’t understand it—she was fearless when it came to talking to people, and she was always very helpful when it came to pointing out mistakes.  
  
After all, she reasoned, if someone informed _her_ that her jacket was inside out, she would be quite grateful to them. She couldn’t fathom why her classmates would get so frustrated.  
  
When Aunt Leanne offered to take her to the zoo, she declined her aunt’s offer to bring someone from school along with her.  
  
In preparation for the zoo excursion, she’d checked out the library’s entire zoology collection. Or at least she’d tried—the librarian had informed her that there was a checkout limit, which had meant a panicked five minutes of deciding which books to keep and which to leave behind.  
  
“Do you know what exhibit you want to visit first?” her aunt asked.  
  
Hermione nodded, bouncing her legs excitedly. “The reptile section! Did you know that anacondas aren’t venomous? I always thought that if a snake was that big, it had to be venomous, but that’s not true at all, they only constrict their prey. And it turns out the reason their jaws can open so wide is because they’re made of flexible ligaments that stretch open.”  
  
Her aunt seemed a bit unsure about what to do with this information.  
  
Hermione dashed off to the reptile tunnel the moment they were through the entrance. Aunt Leanne kept her within eyeshot, but didn’t try to hold her back—it was a special day, after all, and there wasn’t much that could contain her when she was set on something.  
  
Hermione though the reptile area was _brilliant_. It was a long, dark corridor, with lit terrariums and vivariums on either side. She read every plaque carefully, noting the distinctive markings and origins of each species and comparing it to what she had read, but she was especially enraptured by the Brazilian boa constrictor at the very end. She pressed her nose to the glass.  
  
She turned at the sound of footsteps. Her aunt had come up beside her. Hermione beamed. “Isn’t it cool?” The sign said the snake had been bred in captivity, and it was several feet long.  
  
Her aunt hesitated.  
  
Hermione’s face fell. “You don’t like it.”  
  
“Er, well, snakes can be a bit creepy,” Aunt Leanne admitted. “I suppose they’re interesting, though.”  
  
Hermione felt a sudden rush of disappointment. She sighed and went back to leaning against the glass case. The Brazilian boa was uncoiling a bit, flicking out its tongue curiously. “ _Hey there_ ,” she murmured, feeling absurdly lonely for no particular reason.  
  
The boa tilted its head at her. “ _Hello_.”  
  
She froze.  
  
Aunt Leanne frowned. “Hermione?”  
  
Hermione ignored her aunt. “ _You can talk?_ ” she squeaked, eyes round as dinner plates.  
  
“ _Of course I can. But how are you talking to me? Humans can’t talk. They’re not smart enough._ ”  
  
She blinked rapidly, unsure of how to respond. “ _I’m smart. Or at least people say I am. I get good grades. And I like reading a lot._ ”  
  
The boa constrictor shifted. “ _What’s ‘reading’?_ ”  
  
Aunt Leanne tensed. “Hermione, tell me what you are doing this instant.”  
  
Suddenly Hermione realized she was talking to a snake, a snake, and her aunt sounded upset, and maybe a little scared, and she didn’t know what to do. “ _I was just…_ ” She realized there was a sibilant, hissing undertone to her speech. She shook her head and tried again. “I was just… making a new friend?”  
  
“We’re leaving.” Aunt Leanne gripped her arm and led her firmly out of the reptile tunnel.  
  
“Hey!” cried Hermione, wrenching her wrist back. “I just wanted to—”  
  
“Not now,” said Aunt Leanne in a voice like iron.  
  
Hermione sighed and shuffled after her, the loneliness and hurt increasing tenfold, creating a dull ache in her chest. She wished she knew why all these odd things kept happening around her. She was so curious about the snake… she wanted to know what its life was like, and if it enjoyed being in the zoo, and… oh, there so many things she could have asked!  
  
Everything happened at once.  
  
Someone screamed. Her aunt whirled around and then stumbled backward, trembling, face paling with shock. The glass had vanished, and the Brazilian boa constrictor was slithering out of the display area and onto the floor.  
  
“ _Thanksss, amiga,_ ” it hissed as the other patrons of the reptile area shrieked and dashed for the exits.  
  
The great snake squeezed her ankle appreciatively, then slithered off.


	2. Witchcraft and Wizardry

 She always knew there was something more out there.    
  
She devoured books and documentaries with wide, eager eyes and tucked away every bit of knowledge she could. This wasn’t because she thought it was useful, or to achieve a particular goal—she just couldn’t help but be fascinated by anything and everything in the world around her.  
  
But no matter how much she learned, there were things she couldn’t explain. There was no book that could tell her why when a boy on the playground had laughed at her bushy hair, the boy’s own head of hair had suddenly fountained in long, flowing locks that brushed the gravel. There was no book that could tell her why when she had felt sorry for a half-squashed beetle she spotted on the street, it had abruptly sprung back to life and scurried out of sight.  
  
The frustration simmered gently beneath her skin. If she thought hard enough about the odd happenings… if she closed her eyes tight… sometimes she would see a flash of green…

And then it would be gone. So her mind ticked away like a great clockwork device hidden out of sight, gears colliding with glints of gold, waiting for the day the answer would come.

It came on a sunny Sunday afternoon, in the form of a knock on the door.  
  
“Could you get it, please?” called Aunt Leanne. She was busy sifting through documents for one of her clients, for her work as a tax accountant.  
  
Hermione murmured a “sure,” marked her place in her book, and went to see who was there.  
  
A tall, severe woman was standing on the porch, with wire-rimmed glasses and greying hair in a tight bun. She was wearing robes of some sort, and the moment she caught sight of Hermione, her eyes darted to the scar.  
  
“I am Professor Minerva McGonagall,” said the woman. She held out a letter. “Is your aunt home?”  
  
  
*  
  
  
“Miss Granger, I must inform you that you are a witch.”  
  
“Oh,” said Hermione, suddenly relieved. “So _that’s_ why.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione looked down and read the letter again, though she already knew the words by heart.  
  
_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_  
  
_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_  
_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_  
  
_Dear Miss Granger,_  
  
_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._  
  
_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._  
  
_Yours sincerely,_  
  
_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Deputy Headmistress_  
  
In the past hour, she’d learned a lot of things. She had learned that a terrible wizard named Lord Voldemort had tried to kill her and her parents had gotten in the way—they hadn’t died in a gas explosion like she had been told.  
  
She also learned that there was magic in her veins, but there were people who thought it was the wrong kind of magic, that there was something wrong with her because her parents hadn’t been a witch and a wizard.  
  
“But why?” Hermione asked. “Why did You-Know-Who want to kill me?” She shivered. She could scarcely bear to think the full name, let alone speak it.  
  
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s precise reasons for the attack on your home may never be known,” said Professor McGonagall. “But the hatred of Muggle-borns was the ultimate motivation for must of his attacks.”  
  
She was bursting with questions, but there was one that was far more important than the rest.  
  
“Aunt Leanne,” she said. “You knew all of this. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Her aunt didn’t meet her gaze. She stared down at her cup of chamomile tea, stirring idly. Finally she said, “Honey, listen. What was I supposed to tell you? That you belonged to a world that… that I know nothing about? I only wanted you to grow up normal.”  
  
Hermione’s hands clenched around the porcelain teacup. _Normal._ It all came back to that word, didn’t it?  
  
Her emotions twisted and mixed around each other until she didn’t know how to feel. She resented her aunt—she _hated_ lies—but there was also Hogwarts, a place where she could learn about magic, and that was _it_ , that was what she had been looking for, the knowledge that had always been out of reach.  
  
(When she shut her eyes, that awful green light glowed against her eyelids.)  
  
She learned that Hogwarts was the most prestigious school of magic in Britain and among the greatest in the world, and that it had a spot for her ever since that fateful Halloween night.  
  
“Don’t concern yourself over tuition,” said Professor McGonagall. “The Ministry of Magic has kindly provided a fund for your educational expenses, due to your status as the Girl-Who-Lived.”  
  
“The Ministry of Magic? What’s that?”  
  
“The government of the wizarding world,” she said. “But you will pick up all of this soon enough. Right now, you should focus on what’s important.”  
  
Hermione was briefly disappointed (she wanted so badly to _know_ ), but she brightened as another thought came to her. “What kinds of things do you learn at Hogwarts? Is there maths and history and languages?”

The professor smiled in her stern, thin-lipped way. “Yes, you may take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as elective courses, and History of Magic is required until the OWLs. But mostly you will learn things like _this_.”  
  
 She slipped a thin, dark stick from her sleeve and tapped her teacup. It shivered, grew fur, and scuttled off the saucer—as a tiny little mouse.  
  
Hermione gasped. “How did you—?”  
  
“I am the professor of Transfiguration,” she explained, giving the mouse another tap. It froze, fur turning to blue-spotted porcelain, and rattled into place as a perfectly ordinary teacup. “It will be a while before you are transfiguring dinnerware into rodents, but once you are versed in the elementary theory, you will be well on track…”  
  
“Professor,” said Hermione, hardly daring to test her luck. “Are there… I don’t suppose… it’s a lot to hope for, but… there aren’t any books I could read about these things, are they?”  
  
McGonagall looked pleased. “Naturally. Your required book list is enclosed, but there are plenty of supplemental texts for the interested.”  
  
Hermione scrambled to unfold the other piece of paper in the letter envelope. It was like getting ten birthdays rolled into one, with Christmas thrown in on top.  
  
Even though the professor had insisted on staying focused, it seemed she couldn’t help but indulge in Hermione’s curiosity when it came to her own subject. They found themselves skimming over the contents of a few first-year-level Transfiguration lessons, and Hermione was utterly fascinated. On one hand this entire magic business was so alien and illogical, but on the other hand, what the professor was describing made so much sense…  
  
Professor McGonagall commented lightly that she was happy to see a student so interested in academics. At this, Hermione beamed, and immediately decided that Professor McGonagall was simply the best teacher she’d ever had. Then a terrible worry settled over her. She frowned. “It sounds like I’ll be very behind in lessons. Compared to students whose families are wizards and witches.”  
  
“Not at all,” assured the professor. “Magic is not permitted outside of school, so no one will have had a chance to get ahead of you. And besides, many a Muggle-born has gone on to do great things.”  
  
“Really?” said Hermione. “Like who?”  
  
“Like _you,_ Miss Granger.”  
  
“But I haven’t—”  
  
“Not of your own knowledge or volition, no, and I am glad you are not getting an inflated ego over this, but the fact remains that when any given wizard is asked to recite a list of successful Muggle-borns, your name is the first on the list,” said Professor McGonagall severely. “You are the Girl-Who-Lived. Do not allow the opinions of some in our society to discourage you.”  
  
She had a look in her eye, something fierce like fire, and Hermione didn’t really understand why she cared so deeply about it, but she decided to listen.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The professor was supposed to return two weeks later, to take her to a place called Diagon Alley where she could buy her school things. Hermione was desperately excited for her first foray into the world of magic.  
  
“She said it’s not just what’s written on the list, I also get a _wand,_ ” she said, bouncing in her seat at the kitchen table. “And there will be goblins at Gringotts, and a bookstore, and I can’t wait!”  
  
Her aunt tried to smile, but it wavered. She was like her niece in that neither could hide their emotions easily. “You’ll have to tell me everything about it when get back.”  
  
Hermione hesitated. “You mean… you’re not coming with me?”  
  
Aunt Leanne shook her head.  
  
“But—there will be so many things to see—”  
  
“And I hope you enjoy seeing them,” said her aunt. “It’s your world, after all. You belong there. I don’t.”  
  
Hermione didn’t see how she belonged in the wizarding world any more than her aunt did, witch or not, but when she tried to explain that, the words wouldn’t come out.  
  
They were quiet while her aunt fiddled with something at the sink. Eventually Aunt Leanne broke the silence. “Look, honey—are you sure? About all of this?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Are you sure about that school? You’d have to go away from home. I know you don’t have much choice, but if you want to learn about magic some other way…”  
  
Hermione blinked. The idea of refusing the Hogwarts letter hadn’t even occurred to her. Her aunt brought up a good point: did she really want to go to a boarding school in a mysterious, undisclosed part of Britain?  
  
She remembered the strange things that happened around her, the wondrous feeling that always preceded them, like a well of fire spilling over in her chest. With all that she had learned, she felt like a golden door was standing open before her, and now it was time to walk through.  
  
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
Professor McGonagall arrived at precisely 8 o’clock in the morning. Hermione was pleased to see this, as it fit perfectly with her first impression of the professor: strict and intimidating, with no patience for silliness.  
  
“Hello, professor!” she chirped.  
  
“Hello, Miss Granger. Got all your things? Good,” Professor McGonagall said, seeing that Hermione had her coat on and her bag waiting by the shoe rack. “Now, take my arm.”  
  
She gave Aunt Leanne a hug, said, “Bye!” and then took the professor’s arm.  
  
“Ready yourself. Side-Along Apparition can be disconcerting.”  
  
Before Hermione could process this information, there was a terrible lurching in her gut and suddenly she felt as if she were being squeezed through a long, twisty tube.  
  
Her feet slammed onto hard cobblestones and she nearly toppled over, only to be saved by a sharp tug at her collar. “Oh, wow,” she said, fighting the urge to vomit. She doubted it would make a good impression on her teacher.  
  
There were standing in an old cobbled street, and on either side were shops. Not just any shops, though. There was a store with cauldrons and the windows, and another with broomsticks and strange leather balls, and an ice cream shop where the ice cream changed colors, and oh, there was a bookstore, and the titles had words like “spell-casting” and “Transfiguration” and “magic” and “witchcraft” in them, oh wow… She actually walked a few feet forward, mesmerized, before she realized she was being weird.  
  
“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” said McGonagall. “Gringotts first and then we can buy your supplies. Let’s move quickly, before you’re spotted.”  
  
The reminder that she was a celebrity startled her. Right, people would recognize her on sight, just like a popular singer or an unpopular politician. She ran a hand through her curls self-consciously. “What’s Gringotts?”  
  
“A wizarding bank. It’s the tall, obnoxious one,” the professor said sourly.  
  
The building’s white marble facade towered over the petite shops surrounding it. When she spotted the diminutive creature standing guard before the front doors, she turned to the professor and asked a whispered question.  
  
“That is a goblin, Miss Granger,” she said. “Generally they only deal directly with humans when it comes to the management of gold.”  
  
She was fascinated by intricate busyness of Gringotts’ interior workings. The goblin who guided them to the vaults was named Griphook, and she asked him and Professor McGonagall questions about absolutely everything, from the currency exchange system to the relationship between Gringotts and Muggle banks to the formation of the vast underground tunnels.  
  
“Wow,” she breathed when they entered a large cavern. “How old is this? The stalagmites and stalactites are really long. Did you know that the stalagmites are the ones that stick up from the floor and the stalactites hang from the ceiling?”  
  
After visiting a vault specially set up for Hermione by the Ministry, Griphook led them to another one at the professor’s request, within which she placed a tiny, grubby package that she refused to reveal any information about.  
  
“It’s business for the Headmaster,” she said, and that was that.  
  
After they left Gringotts, Hermione burst into excited chatter. “That was so interesting,” she gushed. “And that was an awful lot of gold coins stocked up in there—galleons, right? That’s what they’re called?”  
  
Professor McGonagall nodded and explained the denominations, despite looking somewhat queasy from the cart ride.  
  
They stopped in front of a shop called Madam Malkin’s. “This is where you will get your uniform. Here, take your money. You remember the requirements?”  
  
“Three sets of plain work robes (black), one plain pointed hat (black) for day wear, one pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar), one winter cloak (black, silver fastenings), and everything must have a name tag,” Hermione recited.  
  
The professor blinked a little, possibly shocked at her memorization of the instructions. “Er… good. I’ll be waiting outside.”  
  
Luckily enough, Madam Malkin didn’t seem to recognize her. She only said, “Hogwarts, dear?” and bustled her off to a fitting station in the back. Hermione had collected her new clothes, paid for them (she was rather pleased that the professor trusted her to handle the purchasing by herself), and left.  
  
They began walking down Diagon Alley.  
  
“The next stop will entail purchasing a wand. Ollivander’s is generally considered the most prestigious of wandmakers, and luckily for us, he has set up shop right over there.” She pointed.  
  
Ollivander’s was a quiet, dimly lit place, with none of the fancy advertisements and elaborate window arrangements of the other shops lining the street. As Hermione stepped inside and heard the tinkle of the bell, her mood brightened slightly. A magic wand. A  _magic wand._  
  
The interior of Ollivander’s smelled musty, with a hint of something floral, too faint to identify. She had only a few seconds to take in the shelves upon shelves of long, thin boxes before Ollivander himself appeared.

“Good afternoon,” he said, peering at her from a face rimmed in bushy white hair. His intent gaze made her fidget.  
  
“Good afternoon,” she repeated. She caught sight of the tag on the old man’s lapels: _Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C._  
  
“Ah, yes, I thought I’d be seeing you soon,” Ollivander said softly, eyes drifting to her forehead. “Hermione Granger. It is an honor.”  
  
“Er, thank you?” she said. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react.  
  
“Ordinarily when a young witch or wizard of special note enters my establishment, I am reminded of their parentage,” he said. “I remember every wand I have ever sold. Every one. But you have no magical parentage to speak of. Only the magic within you. Only the magic that turned away that curse.”  
  
Another mention of her parents not being a witch and a wizard. She bit her lip. This really was something she needed to research.  
  
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that gave you that scar,” Ollivander continued, eyes gleaming. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful. Very powerful.”  
  
She nearly choked. “You sold You-Know-Who his wand?”

“I’ve sold many wands, Miss Granger,” he said. He turned to the professor. “Yours, ma’am, was one of the first I ever sold, I believe—twelve and a half inches, mahogany, wonderful at transfiguration, naturally. It has served you well, I trust?”  
  
“It has,” McGonagall said. “However, we are in a bit of a time crunch, so if we could kindly proceed to _Granger’s_ wand?”  
  
“Of course, of course,” said Ollivander, not sounding particularly rushed. A tape measure appeared in his hand. He began to employ it with fervor.  
  
Hermione burned with curiosity at what Ollivander might have gone on to say if McGonagall hadn’t redirected him. The tape measure was apparently moving of its own accord, and in other circumstances she might have been curious as to what the width of her earlobes had to do with buying a wand, but she was busy wondering about the dark wizard that killed her parents.  
  
Had You-Know-Who been eleven years old when he got his wand at Ollivander’s? Had he gone to Hogwarts as well?  
  
The tape measure went away and Ollivander scurried into the labyrinthine stacks, returning with arms full of thin boxes. “Here we are,” he said, deftly extracting a wand from its case and slipping it into her hand. “Nine and a half inches, ebony, dragon heartstring. Nice and firm. Go on, give it a swish.”  
  
She tentatively waved the wand in the air.  
  
“No no no,” he said, snatching it back. “That won’t do, not at all. Try this. Eight inches, mahogany, unicorn hair. Pliable.”  
  
She tried waving the second wand around, but to no effect. It was immediately taken from her and replaced by another, then another, then another.  
  
“Is there some kind of technique I should be using?” she asked worriedly. “Or intent? Because I’m not really thinking about anything, I’m just swishing it about, so I hope that doesn’t—”  
  
“No cause for worry. The wand chooses the witch. It will find you.” With that, he handed her a new wand. “Fourteen inches, willow, dragon heartstring. Multipurpose, excellent for finesse work.”  
  
The pile of discarded wands grew higher and higher, and her dread grew with it. She couldn’t bear to think of what would happen if she couldn’t find a wand.  
  
Finally, Ollivander’s hands stilled, resting on an innocuous-looking, dust-covered box. “Ah,” he whispered. “Unorthodox, perhaps, but…”  
  
“But what?”  
  
“Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple,” he informed her, placing the wand in her fingers.  
  
She blinked in surprise. Her fingertips felt warm, as if the circulation had been jogged. She brought it up and traced a figure eight in the air, and a ribbon of white flame trailed in its wake.  
  
Heat blasted her face. Startled, she lowered the wand, and the fire extinguished. Embers drifted to the floor, and she realized her pulse was echoing in every part of her body, all the way down to her toes.  
  
“Well done, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall approvingly. Ollivander broke out into a wide smile.  
  
“That’s… that felt amazing,” she breathed.  
  
“Ah, well, there’s a lot of power in that wand,” said the wandmaker, taking it from her and returning it to its box. Her fingers itched in disappointment when she let it go. “After all, the phoenix that gave that feather only ever gave one other.”  
  
“For another wand?” she asked curiously.  
  
“Oh yes. You see, the wand that gave you that scar—it shares the same core as the wand that just chose you as its own.”  
  
She paled. “Oh,” she said.  
  
“Don’t fear, Miss Granger. That wand did great things. Great things.”  
  
McGonagall drew in an affronted gasp. Hermione snapped at the same time, “Murdering my parents doesn’t sound all that great, thank you very much!”  
  
“Terrible, yes, but great,” amended Ollivander. He handed her the box. “That will be seven Galleons. Use it well.”


	3. Small Transformations

They bought a telescope, a set of scales, and a pewter cauldron (it was so heavy!), and visited the apothecary to purchase scoops of dried plants and strange insects, apparently for use as Potions ingredients. She asked Professor McGonagall what they all did, and she told her that she could hardly recite the entire contents of a first-year Potions textbook.   
  
That only built up Hermione’s excitement for their final stop: Flourish and Blotts.  
  
She practically ran inside. The bookstore had shelves upon shelves of everything from thick doorstoppers wrapped in embossed leather to slim volumes printed in vellum, with titles like _Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_ and _The History of the Animagus Form_ and _The Living and the Dead: Necromantic Rituals and Stonehenge_. Some books had titles written in runes that wriggled and glowed and made her eyes hurt when she stared straight at them for too long.   
  
Professor McGonagall took one look at her awed face and said, “I’ll fetch your textbooks, and you may have half an hour to explore.”  
  
She blurted, “Thank you!” and dove into the aisles.  
  
The first section that caught her eye was history, and she filled her arms with a stack of books before she realized there was no way Professor McGonagall would let her walk out with all twenty-five of them, so she forced herself to choose the six most fascinating volumes. One of them was _Hogwarts: A History_ , which she planned to read the very moment she got home.  
  
She could have spent eons scanning the shelves, so she forced herself to stay still long enough for her heartbeat to slow and her brain to start thinking clearly. She needed a strategy.   
  
She brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead and her fingers brushed against her scar. She hesitated, and then made up her mind.  
  
It was indescribably odd seeing her name on the spine of a book cover, like she was history too. She picked up books with titles like _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ and _You-Know-Who: From the Death Eaters to the Girl-Who-Lived_. She tried not to flinch at how that last book had an all-black cover with a white lightning bolt on the front, like it was more than just an ugly scar, like it meant something.   
  
She tried reading the first paragraph, but she couldn’t do it, not when the very first paragraph had her name in it: _On October 31, 1981, the Dark Lord himself paid a visit to two Muggles who knew nothing of the world of magic… their daughter, one-year-old Hermione Jean Granger…_  
  
She felt sick and uneasy. She knew that sooner or later she’d have to suck it up and start reading, but it wasn’t going to be in a public place, where anyone could see her. Reading it all laid out like that… it was like hearing Professor McGonagall explain her parent’s death all over again.  
  
She purchased the books and tucked them away in a shopping bag before the salesclerk could get a good look at her face.

 

*

 

“Lights out in fifteen minutes,” her aunt said, poking her head around the bedroom door.  
  
“Mm-hmm,” Hermione said absently, turning a page in _Hogwarts: A History._ There was an illustration of a pair of staircases that moved, and the illustration moved with them. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.  
  
“That means no reading under the covers,” her aunt said.  
  
“Okay, “ she said, not listening at all.   
  
Her aunt closed the door gently, and Hermione spent the next hours reading into the night, eyes burning from sleepiness but unable to stop.   
  
The front cover had a painting of the Hogwarts crest. She prodded curiously at the eagle that was supposed to represent Ravenclaw House and wondered why it wasn’t a raven. She suspected it was another of that house’s famous riddles.   
  
The houses seemed to be a very important part of Hogwarts life, and she was eager to find out which she belonged to. The book hinted at some kind of test to determine house aptitude but refused to elaborate further, so she decided to memorize everything she could from the textbooks and hope it would be enough.   
  
She thought Ravenclaw would probably be best for her, but the writeup on Gryffindor made it sound awfully wonderful, with a long list of illustrious alumni and tales of brave battles against formidable foes. The Headmaster himself was a Gryffindor, and so was Professor McGonagall. It was the house with the biggest reputation for fighting against the Dark Arts, and she suspected that a lot of people thought the Girl-Who-Lived must be a Gryffindor, if people even wondered that kind of thing about her.  
  
To her surprise, _Hogwarts: A History_ wasn’t the only book that mentioned Professor McGonagall— _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ had a whole chapter on how the defensive Transfiguration spells she invented affected the course of the war. She was especially noted for her spells that could turn statues into guardians for a place, item, person, or even idea, although it didn’t go into more detail.  
  
Apparently she was also one of only seven Animagi registered this century. Hermione didn’t know what that meant, but she was impressed anyway.  
  
Reading the books about You-Know-Who was interesting, especially when they mentioned a particularly intricate spell or unusually peculiar aspect of magical culture. And sometimes it was absolutely unbearable, because they were talking about _her._  
  
 _Little is known about how Hermione was able to repel the Killing Curse, one author explained. But only a great innocence and purity could possibly combat such dark magic._  
  
They all referred to her by her first name. The tone was a mixture of familiar and reverent, as if she was simultaneously a distant cousin and a national celebrity.  
  
And the authors knew things about her that she would never have guessed. She felt queasy when she saw one book stating that she had been born on the September equinox of 1980. Before that, she had assumed that no one outside of her immediate family knew her birthday. The idea of such information being public knowledge made her unexplainably uncomfortable.   
  
The book continued, _After the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, she was taken in by one of her Muggle relatives. She is scheduled to study witchcraft at Hogwarts School beginning in the fall of 1991. This is the sum of the reliable information we have on the whereabouts of the Girl-Who-Lived, but it seems that every year, another hoax emerges in which some person claims to have spotted her…_  
  
It went on to explain how quite the stir had been created when a paper called _The Quibbler_ announced it had seen Hermione, age seven, taming a flock of wild hippogriffs in West Bengal.   
  
Odd conspiracy theories aside, she was quite alarmed at the overawed manner in which the authors wrote about her. Even stern, unimpressed Professor McGonagall had made it clear that the entirety of Wizarding Britain was expecting great things from her.  
  
What would they say if she couldn’t live up to their expectations?  
  
She couldn’t remember fighting off You-Know-Who. She couldn’t even think about him without shuddering. It seemed like everyone was expecting her to have marvelous powers—what would they say when it turned out she was utterly clueless about the wizarding world?  
  
Hermione switched to reading through her assigned texts with a fervent passion. Outside, the rain was white noise, a comforting backdrop while she dedicated herself to memorizing every entry in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ (or at least the most useful-sounding).

 

*

 

There were omelettes for breakfast. “I can talk to snakes,” she said as Aunt Leanne handed her a plate.  
  
Aunt Leanne froze for a split second, then carefully sat down before her own omelette and picked up a fork. “Like that time at the zoo?” her aunt asked in a calm, measured voice.  
  
Hermione nodded. “I can’t find anything in my books about it, so I think it might be something everyone can do but that they haven’t bothered to mention. They do that a lot—leave things out because they assume you know it already.”  
  
“That’s interesting,” said Aunt Leanne in a flat voice.  
  
Hermione cut up her omelette with more force than strictly necessary. They’d been having this conversation over and over, where she would mention something related to magic, and her aunt would feign interest poorly until Hermione dropped the subject.  
  
They were silent until Aunt Leanne cleared the plates. She went to pull on her coat, then gave Hermione a kiss on the head and said, “I’ll be heading off to work now.”  
  
“Bye,” said Hermione, fiddling with the button of her sweater. She heard the door shut without looking up.  
  
She had a feeling that her aunt wouldn’t approve of her trying out spells while alone in the house, but she couldn’t bear to do it with her there. The last time Hermione had tried a few simple charms, her aunt had flinched at every incantation and kept a knuckle-white grip on the magazine she was pretending to read.   
  
It took her a long while to find the box of matches in the kitchen. Then she turned to the page in her Transfiguration text and carefully read the instructions. It went over how physical forms all resonated with each other, and similar forms resonated with each other more strongly than dissimilar forms, which made them more easily to transfigure. Apparently because both the carved and treated wood of a matchstick and the molded metal of the needle had similar degrees of manmade-ness, they resonated closely.   
  
She took out her wand from its box, polished it according to the user’s pamphlet with Streevil’s Extra-Strength Wand Polish, and gripped it according to the diagrams in the textbook.   
  
A familiar warmth traveled up her arm, and she pronounced the incantation with a flick of her wand.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
She glared at the match. It was frustratingly dull and wooden, just like before.   
  
She tried the spell again. No success.  
  
Fine, then. There must be something she was missing. She flipped through the chapter and reexamined the diagrams. Her eyes caught on a caption: _This basic transfiguration is typical of the subject in that it requires a fairly standard wand motion (rigid and directed from the wrist). Note the contrast with charmwork, in which fluid movements beginning with the arm are more appropriate._  
  
Understanding dawned. She concentrated on stiffening her wrist and moving her wand in more of a sharp flick than a languid circle, and this time, the match took on a flat grey sheen.  
  
She punched the air in delight. “It worked!” she exclaimed to no one. Sure, it wasn’t a needle yet, but there was a recognizable difference.  
  
By the time Aunt Leanne returned in the afternoon, all one hundred matches in the box had begun to look slightly different, some more so than others. Hermione was utterly exhausted from the sustained use of magic, but she was still grinning, because she was holding a single shiny needle in her hand.


	4. Leaving Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> platform 9 3/4, here we come!

“Got your books?”  
  
“Yes, Auntie,” Hermione said. “And my wand, and my robes, and my normal clothes—I mean my Muggle clothes—”  
  
“Good,” said Aunt Leanne, brushing off lint from her shoulder. “Now, you promise you’re going to write every day?”  
  
“Yes, Auntie,” said Hermione.   
  
“And if anything happens, anything dangerous or unsafe, anything at all, tell me _immediately_ and I’ll bring you straight back.”  
  
“Yes, Auntie, but honestly, I’ll be fine—it’s not like You-Know-Who is still around—”  
  
Aunt Leanne winced like she’d been struck. Hermione regretted bringing up the subject and hurriedly cast around for something else to talk about. “Er, there’s something a bit odd about my ticket… it says Platform 9 3/4. I don’t think there’s a 9 3/4 at King’s Cross.”  
  
“That’s definitely odd,” said her aunt, recovering slightly. “I hope it will be clearer once we’re there.”  
  
It was not any clearer once they were there. Passengers bustled around them, preparing to depart from Platform 9 and Platform 10, but there was no other platform in sight.   
  
Aunt Leanne bit her lip. “Maybe we should contact that professor… but I don’t know how…”  
  
“You need an owl, and we don’t have one,” said Hermione worriedly. “I’m sure it’s something we can figure out by ourselves.”  
  
She scanned the busy station. It had to be somewhere between 9 and 10, right? She walked around the ticket barrier a few times, looking for something out of the ordinary, but all she got for her trouble were a few suspicious stares from passerby.  
  
“—packed with Muggles, of course—“  
  
Hermione whirled, trying to find the source of the voice.  
  
The speaker was a woman a bit plumper than Aunt Leanne, talking to four boys who all shared her fiery red hair. The boys were all pushing luggage trunks, and one of them had an owl—just like the ones in Eeylop’s Emporium in Diagon Alley. They had stopped at the blank wall between the two platforms. Hermione shuffled a bit closer, trying to act casual.  
  
“Now, what’s the platform number?” the woman asked.  
  
“Nine and Three Quarters!” said a tiny girl with the same red hair. “Mum, can’t I goooo?”  
  
“Quiet, Ginny, you’re not old enough. Percy, you first.”  
  
The oldest boy, with springy hair and a visible Adam’s apple, began pushing his trolley toward the wall. Hermione craned her next to see what he was doing, but a crowd of tourists poured past and by the time they were gone, so was the boy.  
  
“Fred, you next,” said the woman.  
  
“It’s George, mum, honestly, can’t you keep your own children apart?” one of a pair of identical twins complained.  
  
“Sorry, George, dear, but you need to be on your way now…”  
  
“Only kidding, I am Fred,” he said, and pushed his trolley toward the ticket barrier. His mother gave a harrumph of irritation and gestured for his twin to follow along. And he must have done, because Hermione was watching them one moment and they weren’t there the next.  
  
Hermione squinted furiously at the ticket barrier. Where could they have gone? It wasn’t as if they could just walk through walls…  
  
Oh.  
  
Right.

She dashed back over to her aunt. “I figured it out—the ticket barrier! It’s magic. You just have to walk through.”  
  
Aunt Leanne looked disconcerted. “Ah,” she said. “Well, then, I suppose… you can take it from here.” She hesitated, and then swept Hermione into a hug.  
  
Hermione buried her face in her aunt’s cardigan. It smelled like freshly mowed grass and chamomile tea and that air freshener she used in the living room. “Bye,” she mumbled.  
  
“Have fun. Try and make friends,” said Aunt Leanne. “I’m sure you’ll do great in class. And write home if you have any trouble, okay?”  
  
“I will,” Hermione promised again, and took hold of her trolley and headed for the barrier.  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut before the impact should’ve come, and when she opened them again, she gasped. A scarlet steam engine was waiting at the platform with Hogwarts Express written across its side, and cats and owls of all colors were winding through the crowd, which was filled with people in robes and hats of every color and kind imaginable. She was wonderstruck.  
  
By the time she had collected herself and clambered onto the train, many of the seats were already full. She glanced at each compartment eagerly, curious about what her fellow students looked like. Some of them were wearing cloaks and some wore jeans and t-shirts like her. The atmosphere was chaotic and excited, and it buoyed her spirits. It was only when she reached the end of the carriage that she wondered where to sit.  
  
There was an awkward cough behind her. “Um, excuse me…”  
  
She turned and saw a round-faced, chubby boy staring fixedly at the ground. He was lugging his trunk with one hand and clutching a struggling toad with another. She stepped out of the way and he heaved his trunk into the empty compartment to her right. “Hi,” he mumbled.  
  
“Hello,” she said brightly, taking a seat across from him. “Are you a first year too?”  
  
He nodded. “I’m Neville. This is Trevor.” He gestured to the toad.  
  
“Does he talk?” she asked, leaning in closer to look at the toad. It stared back beadily.  
  
“What? Er, no… he’s just an ordinary toad. Animals can’t talk.”  
  
“Oh, right,” said Hermione, feeling foolish. She wondered if the incident with the Brazilian boa constrictor wasn’t a common thing after all. She said, “I’m Hermione Granger.”  
  
She figured she should get it out of the way.  
  
His face went through a complex series of emotions in a few seconds, finally setting on shock. “Wow,” he breathed. “Gran said you’d be at Hogwarts this year, but I didn’t think… wow.”  
  
“Are your parents wizards?” she asked, hoping to change the topic.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, looking awkward. “I live with my gran, though.”  
  
“Is she a witch?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Oh, really? I’m so new to all of this—I think people might expect me to know that I have magic and everything, but I was ever so surprised when I got my letter,” she confessed, “but I bet you know all kinds of spells already, don’t you?”  
  
“Not really, we don’t get our wands until we get our letters,” he said. “You mean you—you really didn’t know about magic? You didn’t know you were the Girl-Who-Lived?”  
  
“A bit silly, when you think about it, right?” she said. “My Aunt Leanne wanted me to have a normal childhood.”  
  
He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘normal’?”  
  
“Without magic,” she explained. “My family are all Muggles. That’s what’s normal for us—er—them, I mean.”  
  
“Right, I heard about that,” Neville said, appearing both baffled and intrigued. “So do you have… what’s it called… el-eck-tish-ity?”  
  
She blinked. “Electricity?”  
  
It was clear that wizards had no concept of technology, and Neville seemed to be under the impression that electronics were a kind of Muggle version of magic. She tried to explain that it was just the movement of electrons along conductive patterns, kind of like magnets, but he didn’t know what a magnet was. This led to explaining that magnets weren’t enchanted objects, they just had special properties due to polarized regions pointing in the same direction, but her explanation was entirely lost on him.  
  
“Wow,” said Neville admiringly. “You know all sorts of stuff.”  
  
She sighed. “Except it doesn’t matter that I know about magnets and electricity and all that, because it’s not magic. I know you said you don’t get your wands before we do, but you’ve absorbed parts of this world I don’t understand at all. Like your clothes.” She gestured to his vest and slacks and button-down shirt.  “It’s obvious that we come from different worlds.”  
  
“No, no, my gran says there are Muggle-born kids every year, and they always do great!” he protested, wide-eyed. “I suppose there are always people who say they don’t, but that’s not… they would say that no matter what, and Gran says I have to ignore them. You’ll pick everything up quickly, you’ll see.”  
  
She smiled tentatively. She wasn’t sure she believed him entirely, but his words were comforting.   
  
There was the sound of wheels squeaking, and the trolley lady rapped on the sliding door. Neville slid it open and looked at Hermione. “Do you want anything? There’s all kinds of candy. I can get you some too.”  
  
“Are there any sugar-free treats?”  
  
Both Neville and the trolley lady looked blank. Apparently dental hygiene was not a priority in the wizarding world.  
  
Neville got one of everything, and Hermione made sure to split the costs out of politeness, even though she didn’t think she could stand so much candy at once. What she enjoyed was the enchantments, which Neville had fun explaining to her.  
  
“These taste like everything, absolutely everything,” he told her, holding up a package of Every Flavour Beans. “It’s some kind of charm, I’m not sure what exactly…"

He wasn't exaggerating. She tried one, and it tasted like toothpaste.

"What's toothpaste?" he asked, when she mentioned it.

“You… you don’t know what toothpaste is?”  
  
“I don’t know a lot of things,” he said sadly.  
  
“It’s a kind of substance you use to clean your teeth with.”  
  
“Like a dental potion?”  
  
“Something like that,” said Hermione, and vowed to mail-order as many tubes of toothpaste as possible once she settled in to the school. She picked up the Chocolate Frog card and examined the portrait of Dumbledore. She’d read all about Dumbledore, and how he was You-Know-Who’s worst enemy—aside from herself, but that made her uncomfortable to think about, so she preferred not to. The wizard in the photo winked and stroked his beard. The description on the back of the card read:  
  
 _Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._  
  
She was pleased that she could recite the twelve uses of dragon’s blood from memory.  
  
Neville set the savory treats down and began munching on the sweeter candies. “Do you like chocolate?” he asked.  
  
She nodded. He handed her a box, then opened his own. “Careful, the Chocolate Frogs can leap pretty far. Oh—”   
  
The chocolate leapt out of his hand and onto the seat next to Hermione, and Trevor the toad let out an alarmed croak and jumped out of his owner’s grip.   
  
Hermione slammed the compartment door shut a second too late. Trevor had already disappeared down the corridor. They rushed to the door and craned their necks in both directions, but he was nowhere in sight.  
  
“Oh no, oh no,” said Neville. “The Chocolate Frogs scare him, and he’s always getting lost…”  
  
“I’ll help you look for him,” she said firmly.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“We’ll look along the corridor, and he could have hopped into one of the compartments, so we’ll have to ask if anyone’s seen a toad as we go.”  
  
The first few compartments were filled with older students, who barely spared them a glance before they shook their heads and went back to their conversations. Next were a few kids their age, a bulky, hulking pair who were nodding along while a smaller boy with white-blond hair was talking. He had pale, pointed features that gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a ferret.  
  
“Excuse me,” said Hermione. “Neville’s lost his toad—have you seen it?”  
  
The blond boy looked her up and down scornfully. “No,” he said, and closed the compartment door in her face.  
  
“How rude!” she exclaimed.  
  
Neville continued scanning the ground for his pet. “I think that’s Lucius Malfoy’s son,” he said. “He looks just like him, at least. My gran is an opponent of his.”  
  
“What do you mean, opponent?” She had a vision of wizards facing off on a dueling stage.  
  
“Well, I don’t understand much about politics or anything, but they argue against each other when it comes to new bills and policies,” he said. “They’re in the _Daily Prophet_ a lot. My gran has connections to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and a few other places, I think, and Mr. Malfoy is friends with the Minister. He’s awful—he used to be a supporter of You-Know-Who, but he bribed his way out of charges once the war ended.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what Gran says.”  
  
Hermione had read all about Death Eaters and the Imperius defense and how difficult it was to tell the coerced from the coercers.   
  
“Are his policies prejudiced?” she asked.  
  
Neville nodded vehemently. “He hates Muggles.”  
  
The next few compartments were occupied by fourth years who listened to their question, looked at each other, and shrugged to indicate their toadlessness. Then they came across a girl their age, already in her school robes, with a pink bow in her dark hair, talking animatedly with three other girls.  
  
“Pardon me, but have any of you seen a toad?” asked Hermione.  
  
The girl laughed. “You mean other than _you_?”  
  
The other girls giggled. Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks. She felt incredibly small.   
  
“H-hey,” said Neville, frowning angrily. “Don't say that. That was mean.”  
  
The girl with the pink bow stopped laughing. “I’ll do whatever I want, thank you very much,” she sneered. “You’re just a fat little crybaby, Longbottom, I can’t believe you’re talking to me this way. My mother’s told me all about _your_ family…" She looked away from him. Her gaze landed on Hermione's clothes—her Muggle clothes—and she made a disgusted face. "And what even are _you?_ ”  
  
“She’s the Girl-Who-Lived,” Neville snapped.  
  
The girl’s eyes went wide. Then she recovered herself and said, “Oh really? Prove it, then!”  
  
Hermione pushed her hair away from her forehead.  
  
The four girls in the compartment leaned forward, mesmerized. “Wow,” squeaked a blonde girl. The others shot her a glare, and she shrunk back.  
  
“Well then,” said the leader with the pink bow, trying to appear unshaken. “Clearly being a magical wonder hasn’t done anything for your hair.” She smirked.  
  
Hermione whirled around. “Come on, Neville,” she said stiffly. “We—we have better things to do, anyway!”  
  
She took him by the arm and marched him down the corridor. They were silent for a while, stewing in frustration and embarrassment.  
  
“I think your hair looks fine,” offered Neville.  
  
Hermione sighed, tension leaving her shoulders slightly. “Thanks. But I know we just have to ignore them. I knew a lot of people like her at my last school.”  
  
“That sounds terrible."  
  
“Yes, it was," she said matter-of-factly. "But I know how to deal with them now.”  
  
They asked around in a few more compartments before finding their way blocked by a huddle of people in the corridor, peering inside a single compartment. “Let us see it, Lee!” shouted one person, and then the whole crowd shrieked.   
  
They pushed past with great difficulty—everyone was more interested in whatever spidery monster was inside that shoebox than helping find Trevor the toad—and chatted with the people in the compartments beyond.   
  
One compartment contained a boy with messy black hair and bright green eyes, who just muttered an awkward “no” when they talked to him. A different compartment contained a redheaded boy who she knew must be related to the family she saw going through the barrier. She tried to make conversation, but he was rather standoffish, and she got the impression that he didn't like her much.  
  
And then finally, at the very end of the train—“Trevor!” cried Neville, happily scooping him up. The toad had been wandering near the bathrooms.  
  
Before they knew it, they were approaching their destination. They changed into their school robes as the sun sunk below the horizon, sending washes of gold across the sky before it turned to black. It had been a long time since they passed an urban area, and the wash of stars overhead was far more luminous than anything she'd seen in London.   
  
When the train finally jolted to a halt and they stumbled off, their eyes widened in amazement. The lake glittered like obsidian. Towering up behind it was the castle itself, glorying in its turrets and spires.   
  
Hermione couldn’t help herself—she let out an excited squeal.  
  
“Firs’ years, firs’ years, with me,” called a big, burly man as tall as three first years stacked together.  
  
She and Neville packed into a boat with two other kids. They marveled at their surroundings as they drifted across the lake, and then they were being herded into the Entrance Hall by Professor McGonagall.

Hermione waved happily. The professor gave her a single formal nod, then addressed the entire group. She explained that the Sorting Ceremony was about to start, and added, “I suggest you smarten yourselves up while you are waiting.”   
  
Her eyes lingered on a few people in particular. The boy with the green eyes at least had the sense to try and smooth down his hair, as futile a task as that proved to be, but Neville just looked hopelessly glum, and the redhead looked confused.   
  
“You have some dirt on your nose,” Hermione whispered helpfully. The redhead glared at her.   
  
Professor McGonagall left through the huge doors. The students shuffled nervously. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and started running through spells under her breath. One girl gave her an angry look, which made her stop abruptly.  
  
The ghosts swooping in briefly distracted her from impending doom—that was Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar, she’d read about them in _Hogwarts: A History!_ Unfortunately, no one in her vicinity seemed interested in hearing this fact.  
  
The doors creaked open again, heralding Professor McGonagall’s return. “The Ceremony is beginning,” she told them, and they followed her into the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> random things no one cares about but me: in the american editions, it's _Hogwarts, A History_ , but in the british editions, it's _Hogwarts: A History_ , and while i am an american and all the spellings are americanized (e.g. color instead of colour), i am going to be using "philosopher's stone" instead of "sorcerer's stone", so i figured i should stick with the original punctuation of _Hogwarts: A History_. i obviously spend far too much time thinking about these things.


	5. More Than Learning Spells

The Great Hall was far more breathtaking than _Hogwarts: A History_ had led her to believe. Hermione tripped over her robes in her eagerness to look up at the ceiling, enchanted to mirror the sky outside. The candles hovering in the air glowed and seemed to meld into the stars scattered across the black velvet sky. In the middle of the Hall was… a stool… with a shabby old hat on it…  
  
She smacked her forehead. Of course! The Sorting Hat’s purpose hadn’t been explained directly in _Hogwarts: A History_ , but it had mentioned it to be a “valuable symbolic component of Hogwarts, both metaphoric and practical.” This must be what it was for.  
  
A ragged seam opened and it burst into song. She listened attentively, nodding when her hypothesis was confirmed and paying special attention to the description of the houses, even though she’d already researched them extensively.   
  
Professor McGonagall called out, “Abbott, Hannah!”  
  
A blond girl with pigtails stumbled on her way to the Hat. After only a moment, it shouted “HUFFLEPUFF!”  
  
“Bones, Susan!”  
  
“HUFFLEPUFF!”  
  
“Boot, Terry!”  
  
“RAVENCLAW!”  
  
“Brocklehurst, Mandy!”  
  
“RAVENCLAW!”  
  
Next up was “Brown, Lavender,” who went to “GRYFFINDOR!” The table on the left went into an uproar, louder and more boisterous than any of the tables so far.  
  
“Bulstrode, Millicent!”  
  
“SLYTHERIN!”  
  
Then came “Finch-Fletchley, Justin,” who was sorted into “HUFFLEPUFF!” after a long minute of deliberation. He stumbled off, looking relieved.  
  
Hermione vibrated with excitement. She was up next.  
  
“Granger, Hermione!” called Professor McGonagall, and the Hall went silent.   
  
Hundreds of eyes fixed on her like a hawk on its prey. She almost ran forward, but the gazes of the older students made her slow down. She sat on the stool, feet dangling an inch above the ground, and Professor McGonagall dropped the hat over her head.  
  
It dipped over her eyes, obscuring her view. She waited, breathing fast.  
  
“Hello there,” murmured a deep scratchy voice.  
  
She jumped. “Er, hello!” she whispered back.  
  
“You’d do well in Ravenclaw,” the Sorting Hat said thoughtfully. “You want to learn lots of spells, do you? Well, that can definitely be arranged.”  
  
“Yes, that sounds…” She frowned. She was about to say that sounded wonderful, but somehow _Hogwarts: A History_ had led her to believe that the Sorting was a more important moment than this. You were supposed to learn something about yourself. Something more than ‘you want to learn lots of spells, do you?’  
  
“Ohoh, a tricky customer,” said the Hat with a touch of sarcasm. “And what exactly do you mean by something more?”  
  
Well…   
  
What was the point of having magic if you couldn't help people with it? A vision of a knight in shining armor battling a dragon rose in her thoughts, and she immediately felt embarrassed. It was unrealistic and fantastical even within the realm of magic, and in any case she didn't mean it literally. It was just the first image that came to mind when she thought of a greater struggle, a higher purpose, something _more_.  
  
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the Hat demanded. “Righteous courage, now that’s easy, I can accommodate righteous courage any old day. And you certainly have enough of it buried deep down, that’s for sure… but you’ll have to sacrifice some things, you know. Your desire to learn will be treated entirely differently than you might like.”

“That’s alright,” she said quickly. She’d been sneered at for years for her books and her wide-eyed wonder at the world around her. It wasn’t anything new.  
  
“If you’re sure…? Alright then. You’re all set for GRYFFINDOR!”  
  
It shouted the last word to the hall, and cheering filled her ears. Even the staff table was applauding. Professor McGonagall gave her a small smile.  
  
An older student shook her hand the moment she sat down. “I’m Percy Weasley, I’m a Prefect,” he said. “Welcome to Gryffindor.” Beside him, the ghost she recognized as Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her.  
  
Soon Neville was edging forward to the Sorting Hat. She gave him an encouraging look. He shot her a look of pure terror.  
  
It took almost as long for Neville to be Sorted as Hermione, but eventually it shouted “GRYFFINDOR!” and he darted toward her, looking incredibly relieved. Unfortunately, he forgot to take off the Hat before he left, which led to half the Great Hall laughing at him before he realized his mistake.   
  
She noticed the girl with the pink bow laughing especially loud. Hermione glared at her.  
  
“That was awful,” Neville said gloomily, sitting down next to her.  
  
She patted him on the shoulder. “You got into Gryffindor, didn’t you?”  
  
He perked up. “Yeah, I did!”  
  
The next person to come up was “MacDougal, Morag,” and then “Malfoy, Draco.” He swaggered and smirked his way up to the stool in a simply insufferable manner, and the Hat proclaimed him to be “SLYTHERIN!” before it even touched his hair.  
  
Right after him was the cruel girl with the pink bow—Pansy Parkinson. She walked daintily up to the Hat, and it deliberated for only a second before sending her to Slytherin as well. She flounced happily to the green table.  
  
She was interested to see two twin girls named Padma and Parvati be Sorted into two separate Houses, and then it was “Potter, Harry,” who appeared to be arguing with the Sorting Hat, before being Sorted to Slytherin and looking rather upset about it.   
  
A few more names were called, and last was the redheaded boy with the dirt on his nose.  
  
“I hope he doesn’t throw up on the flagstones,” she said, thinking of how difficult it would be to dig vomit out of the cracks.   
  
“GRYFFINDOR!”  
  
He came to sit on Neville’s other side, face scrunching up as his twin brothers ruffled his hair. “Aww, widdle Ronniekins made it to Gryffindor,” they sang, while Percy the Prefect shook his hand pompously.  
  
The only one left was “Zabini, Blaise,” and then McGonagall went to sit beside the Headmaster. Hermione held her breath in anticipation as Dumbledore stood and gave his odd little speech.  
  
The table filled itself with delicious food of all kinds, and she took a break from chattering at Neville to stuff her mouth. Meanwhile, Percy Weasley had began a monologue about the first year curriculum, which she was more than happy to listen to.  
  
She pointed up at the High Table. “So which teachers are which?”  
  
Percy went from right to left. “…Rubeus Hagrid’s only the groundskeeper, but he’s a member of staff, so don’t go thinking you can disrespect him, not that you would of course, you strike me as a very responsible individual—”  
  
Ron Weasley snorted. Percy paused to glare at him, then continued. “—and that man in a turban is Professor Quirrell, he teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, and then there’s Professor Snape.”  
  
Snape was an intimidating man with greasy hair and all-black robes. His gaze seemed to be focused on the Slytherins, but as if sensing the eyes on him, he glanced over to Hermione.   
  
A sudden pain shot through her scar, and she hissed, slapping her hand over it.  
  
“Are you quite alright?” Percy asked.  
  
“It’s nothing,” she said, chalking it up to the stress of a long day. “What does Professor Snape teach?”  
  
“Potions,” said Percy.  
  
Fred nodded. “He’s Head of Slytherin House, and—”  
  
“—he favors the Slytherins,” George said. “Slimy git.”  
  
“Respectful language, please,” Percy admonished.   
  
The twins rolled their eyes in unison. “It’s true, isn’t it?” said George.  
  
“Yeah, even you can’t deny he takes a zillion more points off the other Houses and practically none off his own,” added Fred. “Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, too.”  
  
The plates cleared themselves by magic at the end of dinner, and then the prefects herded the students to their dormitories. Gryffindor Tower was a lovely, round, warm space, filled with reddish tapestries and illuminated by a crackling fireplace.   
  
In the girls’ dorms, she found her trunk sitting next to a four-poster with a wonderful view of the grounds. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said to one of her roommates, a girl named Lavender Brown.  
  
Lavender looked queasy. “I don’t like heights…”  
  
“Me neither,” said Parvati Patil, casting a frightened look at the window. “I’m glad the house elves didn’t give me that spot.”  
  
“Er, the—what?” said Hermione.  
  
Parvati looked at her, a touch patronizingly. “The house elves,” she repeated. “Little servants that fix up everything around the castle?”  
  
“Oh. I didn’t know.”  
  
“No, of course not!” said Parvati. “It’s completely alright. How could you, being raised with Muggles?”  
  
Hermione frowned. It was true that she lacked certain knowledge because of her nonmagical upbringing, but Parvati’s tone made her uncomfortable.  
  
“That’s right,” said Lavender. “I nearly forgot. You’re the Girl-Who-Lived.” She exchanged an excited glance with Parvati.  
  
“I am,” said Hermione.  
  
“Can we…” Lavender hesitated. “Can we see it?”  
  
“See what?”  
  
“The scar,” Parvati whispered, eyes as wide as dinner plates.  
  
“Er… here.” Hermione pushed away her hair. “You can close your mouths now,” she added.  
  
“Sorry, it’s just—you’re amazing!” squeaked Lavender. “I’m sure you’ll be instantly popular!”  
  
Hermione remembered Pansy Parkinson. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said doubtfully.  
  
“Well, you won’t if you keep hanging around Longbottom,” said Parvati. “He’s such a loser—I knew that even before I came here. My mother used to invite him and his grandmother to tea. He couldn’t go five minutes without spilling something or tripping over his own feet.”  
  
“ _Actually_ , I think Neville’s very kind,” Hermione said coldly.  
  
Parvati looked to the other girl for backup, but Lavender frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seems alright. I haven’t spoken much to him, so I can’t say, really.”  
  
The atmosphere had become charged with awkwardness, so Hermione turned around and busied herself getting a change of pajamas out of her trunk. By the time she was done changing, her two roommates had moved on to other topics of conversation.  
  
“I heard one of the bathrooms are haunted,” said Lavender.  
  
“That’s awful,” exclaimed Parvati. “Can you just imagine trying to get on with your business, and then suddenly a ghost shows up in your stall?” She shuddered.  
  
“Her name is Moaning Myrtle, actually,” Hermione piped up. “She died there after some kind of mystery incident fifty years ago. It’s in the latest edition of _Hogwarts: A History._ ”  
  
They managed to have a perfectly nice discussion about Hogwarts Castle and all its oddities, before exhaustion finally caught up with them. Hermione fell soundly asleep. She did not dream.


	6. Hoggy Warty Hogwarts

The library.  
  
Oh, the _library._  
  
It was bigger than the public library back home. It was bigger than anything she’d seen in her life. The shelves went on forever, and there were tables to study, and absolutely everything in the world to learn, and—it was magnificent.  
  
She got up early every day to wander through the aisles, collecting whatever books caught her eye and devouring them before breakfast. There was so much of magic she needed to know!  
  
She had always loved learning, but there was something about magic that was simply _right_. It clicked into place like a lost organ. It made her feel as if she was glowing.  
  
It was what she existed to do.  
  
The greatest struggle was probably getting to class in the first place. She was determined not to be late. Dragging Neville behind her, she pestered every ghost, portrait, Prefect, and Gryffindor student she came across until she had sufficient directions.  
  
It didn’t help that whispers followed her wherever she went.  
  
“—black girl next to the chubby kid—”  
  
“Is that—?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah it is, look, you can just see the scar under the hair—”  
  
“—different than I imagined, you know?”  
  
“Is it _really_ —?”  
  
One person actually shoved Neville to the side so they could get a better look at her. Luckily, a Ravenclaw Prefect stepped in and started yelling at the culprit, leaving Hermione and Neville free to run down the corridor.  
  
Transfiguration was their first class, and Hermione immediately decided it was her favorite. Yes, Charms and Potions and Herbology and Astronomy and History of Magic all seemed interesting from their textbooks, but the theory behind actually transforming one thing into another was something that boggled her mind. Potions was combining things together, rather like the chemistry unit she did last year, and Charms was about layering a sheen of magic on top of something that already existed, but Transfiguration involved altering the fabric of the physical world as directly as possible.  
  
Hermione and Neville would have gotten there early, but Neville got his foot stuck in a moving staircase, which necessitated some strategic thinking on her part in order to retrieve him and end up on the right floor at the same time. As it was, they rushed in a mere thirty seconds before Professor McGonagall took roll.  
  
Professor McGonagall kept the class silent effortlessly from beginning to end. She gave them a stern lecture on the importance of Transfiguration, amazed them all by transfiguring her desk into a pig and back, had them take notes on the theory of form resonance and physical causality, and set them to turning matches into needles.  
  
Hermione was shocked to find that she was the only person who had read about the spell in their textbook, and she earned her very first House points by explaining Switching Spells to the class.  
  
She had already practiced the transfiguration at home, but she was so nervous at doing it under the professor’s eye that it took her nearly the entire class period to achieve anything close to the desired result. The match was silver and pointed, although it still felt wooden to the touch.  
  
“Has anyone managed to make any difference to their match?” asked Professor McGonagall, winding through the desks.  
  
Hermione raised her hand.  
  
The professor came over and examined her test object carefully. “Well done, Miss Granger,” she said. She held up the half-transfigured match. “Does everyone see this?”  
  
Despite being taught by a ghost and featuring fascinating subject matter, History of Magic was the most boring class Hermione had the misfortune of enduring.  
  
She dutifully took notes, struggling with the unfamiliar quill, but she couldn’t believe how Binns could take something as relevant and important as goblin uprisings and turn them into something so dreadfully dull.  
  
Poor Neville fell asleep.  
  
Professor Flitwick’s class was far more interesting. Practicing a charm until she got it right was a satisfyingly soothing process. There was less complex theory to Charms than there was to Transfiguration, which disappointed her, but at least the assigned reading seemed intriguing.  
  
The only part of the class she didn’t like was when Flitwick got startled and fell off his stool when he called her name. Everyone had laughed.  
  
“I hate being laughed at,” she confessed to Neville.  
  
“I don’t think they were laughing _at_ you,” he said.  
  
It didn’t help.  
  
As the week progressed, the Gryffindors got a taste of Herbology and Astronomy. Astronomy was difficult only because it was late at night and she was sleepy, and Herbology didn’t seem to require much thinking beyond memorization—at least, that’s what she thought before Sprout lectured them on the complexities of calculating sap yield predictions or the magical resonance of one fern subspecies on another.  
  
Neville was pretty good at Herbology, though a bit nervous. “I have a garden at home,” he confessed. “But I haven’t handled any of the dangerous plants yet. I’m hoping if I get a good grade, Gran will let me have a go at planting a few beds of my own.”  
  
Hermione, who intensely disliked the sensation of rooting through soil, could only shrug and wish him luck.  
  
Everyone was looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts—except Hermione. It was the only class whose textbooks she hadn’t fully understood. So much of it involved relying on instinct and thinking quickly under stress, and she was good at neither. She was secretly relieved when Quirrell turned out to be an utter joke of a teacher, since that meant no one else would find out how awful she was at Defense.  
  
She wasn’t a fan of the garlic smell, though.  
  
And then, finally, it was time for Potions. The reminder that Snape’s class was scheduled for today hit the first-year Gryffindors like a bucket of ice water. The older Gryffindors had enjoyed scaring them with stories, and Hermione in particular was desperate not to lose any points.  
  
Snape began with roll call. When he reached Hermione’s name, he paused. “Ah, yes. Hermione Granger. Our new… _celebrity_.”  
  
Parkinson, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle all thought this was absolutely hilarious.  
  
When he was finished, he looked out over the class with dark, cold eyes. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,” he began in a low voice. His speech was deadly serious, emphasis on _deadly_ , and he finished with “…if you aren’t a big a bunch of dunderheads like I usually have to teach.”  
  
Hermione let out a quiet _eep_ sound and shifted to the edge of her seat. She would _not_ embarrass herself in this class.  
  
She risked a glance to her right. Neville looked utterly terrified. She recalled his propensity for clumsiness and forgetfulness, remembered the precision that the Potions textbooks insisted was necessary for brewing, and winced.  
  
Malfoy was looking unbelievably smug, though for what, Hermione didn’t know. They hadn’t even gotten out their cauldrons yet.  
  
“Granger!” snapped Snape. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”  
  
“A powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death, sir,” she said. It had been in the footnotes of chapter six in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._  
  
His eyes narrowed, like that wasn’t the answer he wanted, even though she knew she’d answered perfectly. “If you can answer that, I suppose you can tell me where to find a bezoar, can’t you?” His tone made it clear he expected her to say no.  
  
“In the stomach of a goat, sir,” she said. “Other animals can develop bezoars as well, but  the goat kind is the only useful variant for potionmaking.”  
  
“Alright then, Granger, tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane,” he snarled.  
  
Her palms went sweaty. “Um, um, sir, is that a trick question? I—I think they’re both just names for aconite, but—”  
  
“You are _correct_ , Granger,” he ground out, as if it was a dreadful insult. “Well? Why aren’t the rest of you writing this down?”  
  
There was a flurry of parchment and ink.  
  
“In the future, Miss Granger, more than fame and rote memory will be required to succeed in this class,” said Snape.  
  
She blinked, mouth falling open in shock. Pansy Parkinson giggled.  
  
Was he really…? He was actually _upset_ that she knew the material? She looked around surreptitiously, wondering if anyone else understood what was going on, and saw Seamus Finnigan looking confused, Lavender and Parvati appearing alarmed, and Ron Weasley glaring ferociously toward the front of the class.  
  
They brewed a simple boil cure for the rest of class. It was a good thing she already knew the steps to the potion, because Neville almost melted their shared cauldron a few times, and it was difficult to concentrate while she was upset.  
  
The worst part was how Snape swept around in his long, billowing robes and paid far too much attention to her potion than she would have liked. Every time he came over to inspect her work, he would find no fault, so he would snap at Neville for sloppy knife work or some other minor issue and stride off to compliment Malfoy’s potion for nothing in particular.  
  
At one point he told the entire class to examine how perfectly Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs, despite the fact that she knew her slugs had been stewed better, and she found herself simultaneously trembling with fury and blinking away tears. Neville patted her shoulder hopelessly.  
  
She forced herself to keep it together until after they were dismissed. The moment she rounded the corridor, she burst out, “I can’t _believe_ that man! How—how dare he—!”  
  
“It could be worse, I mean, you didn’t lose any points,” said Neville.  
  
“He wanted me to get it wrong!”  
  
“But you got it right,” Neville pointed out.  
  
“Yeah, you got him really pissed,” said Ron. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her directly. He looked impressed.  
  
“I don’t want to make him angry, I want to be respected in the classroom!” she said.  
  
Her complaints did no good.

Nothing changed. She enjoyed all her other classes, and she still found some of her homework essays interesting, but every moment in the Potions lab was torture. It also brought her into close quarters with the Slytherins, which was never a pleasant experience.  
  
“Hey, Granger,” hissed Parkinson one day. “I got a letter from my mother today, do you know what it said?”  
  
Hermione tried to stay focused on her cauldron, but it was difficult.  
  
“She’s a journalist, the editor of _Witch Weekly_ , actually,” Parkinson continued. “That means she finds things out about people. And d’you know what she told me about your parents?”  
  
“Just ignore her,” Neville whispered. Hermione nodded jerkily and began chopping her parsnips with unnecessary fervor.  
  
“She told me your parents were dentists,” Parkinson said delightedly. “I didn’t know what a dentist was, see, but my mother tells me it means they dug around in people’s _mouths_ with their fingers, their actual _fingers_ , and try and fix people’s teeth. Makes me wonder what happened to you—were your teeth just so ugly and huge that what you’ve got is the best they can do?”  
  
Once the class was over, Hermione ignored Neville’s attempts to console her and instead tore down the hallway, tears filling her eyes. She kept running until she found a bathroom to hide in.  
  
She dashed into a stall, locked it behind her, and proceeded to sob angrily.  
  
Eventually, once she had stopped shaking so hard, she noticed a soggy copy of the _Daily Prophet_ lying on the floor. She refused to touch it, but one of the stories on the front page wasn’t too blurred, so she could read it from where she was standing.  
  
_GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST_  
  
_Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31st July, widely believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts’ goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had been in fact been emptied earlier that day. “But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon._  
  
She frowned. July 31st was the day Professor McGonagall had taken her to retrieve money from her school fund. That was the same time she removed the package from vault seven hundred and thirteen. She remembered Griphook explaining the security system: there was no way someone could have gotten through all that without powerful dark magic.  
  
Coincidence? Maybe. She already knew that asking Professor McGonagall wouldn’t get her anywhere.  
  
She might have considered it further, but that’s when the ghost came out of the toilet.  
  
She appeared in a fountain of water—Hermione jumped back to avoid it getting on her clothes—and shot into the air. “Aww,” the ghost said in a shrill, mournful voice. “Did you come here to cry?”  
  
Hermione backed up against the stall door, mouth open in shock. “M-Moaning Myrtle,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t know you were—”  
  
“Don’t be sorry!” said Myrtle, arching her eyebrows. “And don’t stop crying on my account! I _love_ it when people come in here to cry. No one ever visits me otherwise.”  
  
“Oh…” That sounded creepy, but also rather sad; no wonder this ghost was known for sobbing all the time.  
  
Myrtle hovered a little closer, eyeing her hopefully. “Do you… want to talk about it?”  
  
And that was how Hermione found herself confiding all her woes to a dead girl.  
  
She was morbid and creepy in many ways, but in Hermione’s distressed state she found her surprisingly comforting. “I was in Ravenclaw, myself,” said the ghost, nodding conspiratorially. “This awful girl named Olive Hornby used to tease me about my glasses.”  
  
“But aren’t glasses, well, stereotypically Ravenclaw-ian?” said Hermione. “Maybe she was just jealous because you looked more like a Ravenclaw than she did.”  
  
Myrtle beamed. “Why, thank you! That’s so nice! I wish there had been nice people like you around when I was alive…”  
  
By the time Hermione was ready to face the world again, she felt almost uplifted.  
  
“I’ll try and come back sometime soon,” she said, wondering if she would regret this promise.  
  
“You can always cry in my toilet,” Myrtle assured her. “I’ll chase away the bullies if they try to follow you in!”


	7. Friends in Odd Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a day late. i was out of town and had limited time/access to wifi. hopefully i'll be able to post the next chapter on friday, but i might run into a similar problem.

Often Neville accompanied Hermione to the library to work on homework, but he wasn't of quite the same studious spirit as her, so she often went alone. This was one of those times. She had a spot that she privately thought of as hers, with a comfortable chair, good lighting, and a sturdy table, and she was about to plop down into her seat—and then realized it was occupied.  
  
She stared in frustration at the boy who had taken her spot. She noticed the green and silver on his tie and her mood went from bad to worse.  
  
“Excuse me,” she said stiffly. “Can I sit here?” She gestured to the seat across from him.  
  
The boy jerked back, startled, and blinked owlishly at her from behind round glasses. “Er,” he said. “Alright.”  
  
He turned back to the parchment he was bent over. She sat and pulled her Astronomy essay from her bag, eyeing him skeptically. He was a Slytherin, so she had expected a far more hostile response.  
  
She peered discreetly at his parchment. It was probably unethical, but she couldn’t help her curiosity. It was a letter: _Dear Mum and Dad…_ Every now and then he would pause to think and chew on the end of his quill, a habit she found positively insufferable.  
  
She turned back to her essay on the fundamental principles of the zodiac and tried to ignore him. This was less easy once he finished his letter and moved on to Charms homework—specifically, practicing the Levitation Charm.  
  
His failed attempts began to measure in the dozens. Hermione resolutely avoided looking at him, sure that she would be met with a scathing response if she dared to interact.  
  
“ _Wing_ -er- _dee_ -um le- _vyo_ -sah,” he muttered, jabbing his wand at his quill.  
  
She grimaced. His pronunciation was physically painful, and this was an improved attempt. Once her migraine began to form, she finally gave up and snapped, “It’s Win- _gar_ -dium levi- _oh_ -sah, alright?”  
  
The Slytherin froze. He gave her a suspicious glare. Then, slowly, he poked his wand at the quill and said, “ _Wingardium leviosa_.”  
  
It fluttered briefly, then lay flat.  
  
“And you can’t jab like that, it’s a swish and flick motion,” said Hermione. “Like this, see?” She demonstrated with her empty hand.  
  
He stared at her, considering, for a long thirty seconds. She was getting impatient, and just as she was about to make a sharp remark, he picked up his wand and swished and flicked. “ _Wingardium leviosa._ ”  
  
The quill rose steadily in the air. His eyes widened in delight. “Wow,” he said. He looked at her, and his concentration broke. The quill fell back to the table. “Er, thanks.”  
  
“No problem,” said Hermione, turning back to her Astronomy essay.  
  
“You’re the Girl-Who-Lived, aren’t you?” said the Slytherin. “Hermione Granger.”  
  
Sometimes the most shocking part of Hogwarts was how everyone already knew how to pronounce her name. “Yes, that’s me,” she said.  
  
“I’m Harry,” he said. “Harry Potter.” He hesitated. “Um, this is probably a weird thing to say, and very out of the blue and all that, but I’m sorry Malfoy and Parkinson are awful to you.”  
  
Now _that_ shocked her. She jerked her head upright, assuming he was mocking her, but he looked genuinely apologetic.  
  
“Oh, er, thank you,” she said. She wasn’t sure what else to say.  
  
“They’re mostly jealous. Well, Malfoy’s inherently awful. But also jealous.”  
  
“No offense,” she said carefully, “but I’m kind of surprised to hear that, considering…” She gestured at his Slytherin tie.  
  
He grimaced. “Yeah, I’m not suicidal enough to challenge them publicly, especially considering my… well, you know.”  
  
“I don’t, actually.”  
  
“Well, you know, my blood status.”  
  
She looked blank.  
  
“Huh. I guess that kind of gossip doesn’t get as far as the other houses,” said Harry. “I’m a half-blood, see.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” she said. She felt a rush of sympathy, thinking of Parvati’s condescending tone from her first night here, remembering her years as the only black girl in a school full of rich white kids. “Is that… hard, in Slytherin?”  
  
“I’m handling it fine,” he said defensively, which told her all she needed to know.  
  
“By the way,” she said, “why are you practicing Charms in the library? The rules are very strict about spellwork. And talking. You could get us thrown out. Can’t you just practice in your common room?”  
  
He scowled. “I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I just can’t, alright?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” she said, raising her hands in the air exaggeratedly. “As long as Madam Pince doesn’t see you.”  
  
When she came back the next day, he was there. And the next day, and the next, and the one after that. Same time, same place, without fail. They talked a little at first, and then focused on schoolwork, but they spoke more and more as time went on.  
  
Hermione noticed that Harry always sat in the back in Potions class, and Snape always ignored him. Always. Even though his potions were quite good—they didn’t emit sparks, give off noxious odors, or explode, at any rate—Snape never once gave him praise, despite showering virtually every other Slytherin in points.  
  
He didn’t seem to get along well with anyone in his house, either. It wasn’t anything that she would have seen if she hadn’t been looking for it, but Malfoy would occasionally say something quietly to Crabbe or Goyle or Parkinson with a mocking sneer in Harry’s direction. His goons and Parkinson generally responded with appreciative sniggers, while Harry glowered furiously at his cauldron.  
  
A week later, Hermione brought Neville along. “You should meet Harry,” she told him. “He’s a Slytherin, but he’s quite nice, at least when he’s not being defensive.”  
  
Neville was doubtful, and he and Harry spent most of the first study session narrowing their eyes at each other. Then suddenly Neville sat bolt-upright. "Wait a second," he said. "Your parents aren’t Lily and James Potter, are they? The Aurors?”  
  
Harry nodded proudly.  
  
Hermione gasped. “ _Really?_ I didn’t know that! Isn’t Lily Potter the Auror who took down Bellatrix Lestrange? She’s in _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts!_ ”  
  
“Actually, Mum says that book is rubbish and inaccurately romanticizes the war effort,” said Harry, “but yeah, she is.”  
  
Neville had gone oddly quiet. He was fidgeting with his sleeves when Hermione noticed. She touched his arm gently. “Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m f-fine,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “I was just—I just wanted to say that I thought that was impressive. Your family.”  
  
Harry looked pleasantly surprised. She surmised he wasn’t used to receiving compliments about his family.  
  
Hermione and Harry talked nearly every day. She got the impression that she was his only friend. Neville only came once or twice a week, but he and Harry seemed to get along well. Harry often asked him for help on his Herbology homework, which Hermione suspected was good for Neville’s self-esteem.  
  
Harry often spent his time in the library composing letters home. Eventually he admitted that during his first week at Hogwarts, Malfoy had found his letter and mockingly read it aloud to the rest of their dorm, then tore it up, and Harry had been careful to do all his letter-writing where his housemates couldn’t reach him. Hermione was furious on his behalf—“You should tell your Head of House!” “What, _Snape?_ ”—but he stubbornly insisted that he could deal with it on his own.  
  
She got into the habit of writing her own letters at the same time. She and her aunt wrote to each other with the school owls every week like clockwork.   
  
Aunt Leanne rarely acknowledged magic. It wasn't obvious; in fact, it took Hermione a while to notice the absence at all. Aunt Leanne would tell her she was glad she was enjoying her classes and making new friends, but her aunt refused to mention the magical aspects of either.  
  
It created a hollow ache in her chest. Hermione tried not to dwell on it—her aunt just didn’t understand, that was all—but it wasn’t easy. Instead, she threw herself into interacting with her friends with renewed fervor and brushed off their attempts to inquire into her problems.  
  
And when it all got too much to bear, well, there was always Moaning Myrtle to talk to.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione came down to the common room to find everyone clustered around a slip of paper on the notice board.  
  
“Flying lessons!” exclaimed Seamus, shaking Dean’s shoulder.  
  
“Yeah, I can read,” said Dean. “What’s the big deal?”  
  
“The big deal? The _big deal?_ Dean, it’s _flying lessons!_ ”  
  
Hermione had to agree with Dean. They already lived in a magic castle populated by ghosts and sentient portraits. The only thing flying lessons brought to mind was nightmares about falling and breaking her neck.  
  
“I was on a broomstick once when I was seven,” said Neville gloomily. “I fell off. My gran had to use a Hover Charm.”  
  
She got a better look at the notice. “Oh _no._ ”  
  
“What?” asked Neville.  
  
“It’s with the Slytherins. Which makes this a fresh and interesting way for Parkinson to laugh at me in public.”  
  
The only class they had with the Slytherins was Potions, which was awful enough, since Snape decided to take points off for infractions that ranged from “Longbottom was in the row in front of you and you didn’t stop him from mixing in the hellebore before the brew was brought to a boil? Five points from Gryffindor,” to “You saved Longbottom’s potion by telling him to bring it to a boil before mixing in the hellebore, didn’t you? Five points from Gryffindor.”  
  
Of course, Parkinson considered this the height of humor, and the sound of her giggling was a regular soundtrack down in the dungeons.  
  
“I think I’m going to see if there are any books on flying in the library,” said Hermione weakly.  
  
Harry was already there when she arrived. He was practically vibrating in his seat. “Hermione, Hermione, did you hear?” he said. “We have _flying lessons!_ ”  
  
She contemplated smacking his forehead with a book.  
  
The day of the lessons, it was all anyone could talk about. Hermione and Neville were alone in their trepidation. While Ron and Seamus were loudly proclaiming their skill on a broom, Hermione was frantically reciting facts from _Quidditch through the Ages_ while Neville hung on to her every word.  
  
She saw Parvati roll her eyes and whisper something mockingly to Lavender, but she ignored them.  
  
This continued as they walked down to the Great Hall, where the Slytherin first-years were having a similar experience.  
  
Neville stopped in his tracks. “Hermione,” he whispered. “Harry’s—he’s—”  
  
She began to pay attention to the Slytherin’s conversation and realized something extraordinary was happening: someone was _openly challenging_ Malfoy.  
  
“ _You?_ Seeker?” Malfoy hissed.  
  
“Yeah, I think I will be,” said Harry coldly.  
  
The rest of the Slytherin first-years were watching the exchange like it was a tennis match. Crabbe had lifted his sausage-bearing fork to his mouth and then frozen in place, mouth open vacantly.  
  
“Please, as if you could do more on a broom than fly into a goalpost,” sneered Malfoy.  
  
“Really? What’s your Seeker strategy? Bullying someone else into catching it for you?”  
  
Another sneer from Malfoy. She was convinced he practiced it in the bathroom mirror. “At least _my_ —  
  
Right then, Millicent Bulstrode did something very brave. She interrupted him and said, “Does it really matter? We can’t try out until next year.” Her quiet, tremulous voice, which contrasted with her heavyset, imposing frame, rang out in the dead quiet.  
  
The silence held for another moment, and then Malfoy rounded on her. “ _We?_ Are _you_ trying out? A cow like you?”

She glared at him with surprising venom. “I’m thinking about Beater. I’m good at hitting Bludgers toward snotty rich kids’ faces.”  
  
Malfoy’s mouth puckered like he had bitten into a lemon. Harry snorted.  
  
Hermione was distracted from the confrontation by Neville’s grandmother’s owl swooping in to deliver a small package. He unwrapped it and held up the glass sphere. “Gran sent me a Remembrall!”  
  
“Really? What does it do?” She examined the swirling white mist.  
  
“You hold it, and if it turns red…” His face fell as the mist turned scarlet. “…it means you’ve forgotten something…”  
  
“So what have you forgotten?”  
  
“No idea…” He started shuffling through his school bag. “Maybe I left a textbook in the dorm?”  
  
Suddenly the Remembrall was snatched from his hand. They looked up to see Malfoy turning it over.  
  
Hermione grimaced. She hoped he had come over because it had become too embarrassing for him at his own table. “Give it back, Malfoy.”  
  
"Y-yeah, give it back,” said Neville.  
  
Over Neville’s shoulder, Hermione caught McGonagall’s eye. The professor swept down in an instant. “What’s going on here?”  
  
“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, professor.”  
  
Malfoy dropped it sulkily on the table. “Just looking.” He slunk off.  
  
Flying lessons weren’t until the afternoon, so she had several more hours for her nerves to build. At three o’clock, the Gryffindors marched across the expansive lawns to the Quidditch pitch, where the hawk-eyed instructor, Madam Hooch, was waiting.  
  
The Slytherins were in the middle of another argument when they arrived, but Madam Hooch scowled at them until they shut up. She instructed everyone to stand beside a broom and shout “Up!”  
  
“Up,” said Hermione.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
“Up!” she said, louder.  
  
The broom rolled over, then stopped moving.  
  
Around her, Ron had coaxed his broom into rising a few inches off the ground, and Neville’s didn’t budge at all. Both Harry’s and Malfoy’s brooms jumped into their hands at once.  
  
She cautiously followed Madam Hooch’s instructions on how to mount the broomstick and was quietly amused to hear her scold Malfoy for an improper grip.  
  
“When I blow the whistle, I want you all to kick off hard and rise four feet above the ground. No more, no less. Ready? One… two… th—”  
  
Neville had kicked off a second too early, and was now rising up, up, up… “Get down here this instant!” shouted Madam Hooch.  
  
“I can’t!”  
  
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no…”

He rose twenty feet before his face went white and he slipped off. She yelped as he crashed to the ground.  
  
Madam Hooch ran over. “Broken wrist, we’ll get you to the hospital wing,” she muttered. She addressed the class. “I’m taking Longbottom. If any of you so much as touch a broom before I return, I’ll have you on the train home before you can say ‘Quidditch’.” She conjured a stretcher and levitated Neville onto it.  
  
The moment she was out of sight, Malfoy burst into laughter. “Did you see that? That great lump!”  
  
Half of the Slytherins snickered. Millicent Bulstrode looked uncomfortable.  
  
“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati. Considering the harsh comments she’d heard Parvati make in the past, Hermione was a little impressed. Malfoy really did have a talent for making people unite against him.  
  
“Ooooh,” said Parkinson. “Sticking up for a fat little crybaby, are you?”  
  
“Look, it’s that stupid trinket Longbottom got from his gran!” Malfoy snatched something from the grass. “How about I leave it somewhere for him? How ‘bout—up a tree?”  
  
“Malfoy, don’t you dare,” Hermione warned, but he was already on his broomstick and shooting up to hover near a treetop.

“Come back down and give it here,” shouted Harry. Malfoy laughed.  
  
Harry grabbed his broom.  
  
“Harry, no, you’ll get in trouble!” cried Hermione.  
  
Harry ignored her and flew after him. He was clearly faster and more comfortable on a broom than Malfoy, and this performance was accompanied by shrieks and whoops from the people on the ground. Malfoy looked furious.  
  
“Give it here or I’ll knock you off that broom,” called Harry. “There’s no Crabbe and Goyle up here to protect you.”  
  
At this point Hermione was near hyperventilation. Surely a teacher would see them, and then—  
  
Malfoy shouted “Catch it if you can!” and tossed the Remembrall in the air. Harry jerked his broom around and darted after it, a falcon honing on its prey, and Hermione nearly screamed as he snatched it out of the air just a foot off the ground. He pulled up at the last second and landed on his feet.  
  
That’s when she spotted Professor McGonagall running over the hill.  
  
“HARRY POTTER!” she bellowed.  
  
The whole class flinched.  
  
The professor was speechless with shock. “I never—in _all_ my time at Hogwarts—”  
  
“It wasn’t his fault, prof—”  
  
“Silence, Miss Bulstrode—”  
  
“But Malfoy flew first, and he was taunting Harry with Neville’s Remembrall. Harry was getting it back,” said Hermione.  
  
“Oh _really_? Malfoy, Potter, follow me!”  
  
The two Slytherins glared at each other, dropped their brooms, and followed Professor McGonagall sullenly up to the castle.


	8. Stumbling in the Dark

Hermione was shocked to find that Harry had not, in fact, been expelled, and instead was waiting for her in the library the next day.  
  
“Well, Malfoy and I have detention for the next two weeks,” said Harry happily, “but you won’t _believe_ what happened next.”  
  
She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”  
  
He nodded eagerly. “So McGonagall takes us to Snape’s office, right? And she says we disobeyed Hooch and were flying when we weren’t supposed to, and Snape gives this menacing look at Malfoy and kinda avoids looking at me.”  
  
“Right,” said Hermione.  
  
“And McGonagall says Malfoy instigated it but Snape’s just like ‘I don’t care, they’re both in detention for the next two weeks,’ and _then_ McGonagall describes how I dived after the Remembrall—and I’m not joking, I’m pretty sure that was the first time Snape’s ever actually made eye contact with me,” said Harry.  
  
“In a good way or a bad way?”  
  
“Well, after McGonagall leaves, Snape tells Malfoy to go back to the common room, and then he actually grabs me by the collar—” Harry gestured to the back of his robe collar for emphasis. “—and _drags_ me out the door and down the hall.”  
  
Hermione gasped. “What? That’s awful! I’m sure that’s against school rules!”  
  
“Probably,” he agreed. “I thought he was going to chop me up for Potions ingredients.”  
  
“Then why are you grinning?”  
  
“Because then,” said Harry, “he drags me up a few staircases and into Quirrell’s classroom, calls Marcus Flint over, and then _shoves_ me toward him and says I’ll be trying out as Seeker for the house team.”  
  
Her mouth dropped open. He laughed at her expression, and Madam Pince shushed him angrily.  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” whispered Hermione. “First-years aren’t allowed on teams!”  
  
“Special exception from Dumbledore,” Harry said, smirking. “Ooh, you should’ve seen Malfoy’s face when I told him I’ve _already_ taken his Seeker slot…”  
  
“But Harry, this is bad! You broke the rules, you shouldn’t get a reward for it!”  
  
Harry snorted. “Rewarded? The last time someone thought I was a rule-breaker, I got Sorted into Slytherin.” At her look of confusion, he explained, “I was expecting to go into Gryffindor like my parents. The Sorting Hat told me I was resourceful, determined, and dismissive of rules, so I was a better fit for Slytherin.”  
  
“Oh,” she said, frowning. “Huh… but don’t try to distract me! I see what you’re doing.”  
  
“What do you mean?” he said innocently.  
  
She stomped on his foot. He winced.  
  
  
*  
  
  
“So, Hermione,” said Parvati. “That thing with Neville’s Remembrall. It really seemed like you knew Harry Potter. Personally.”  
  
“First name terms, even,” added Lavender with a grin. “How did that happen?”  
  
“And how have we not heard about this before?”  
  
“We’re friends. We study together,” said Hermione.  
  
“Ooh? Studying? So what are you—” Lavender winked elaborately, “— _studying_ , then?”  
  
“There is nothing romantic about the studying,” Hermione said flatly.  
  
“Then why did you keep it secret?” Parvati demanded.  
  
“Not shouting it from the rooftops does not equal keeping it secret,” said Hermione. “Neville comes to the study sessions too! I’m not at fault for your poor observational skills.”  
  
Lavender snickered into her hand. Parvati glared at her. Lavender stuck out her tongue.  
  
“ _Anyways_ ,” said Parvati, turning away from her best friend with exaggerated haughtiness, “you still didn’t say anything when you were around us, and don’t think I wouldn’t have noticed! And you never say hi to him in the Great Hall, like everyone does for their friends that aren’t in their house. Don’t try and tell me that’s not on purpose.”  
  
Hermione hesitated. She had a point. “Well, it’s only—I didn’t want to make trouble for him in his house. He’s having a bit of a hard time there.”  
  
“What, really? He seemed plenty popular after he showed up Malfoy with that broomstick stunt,” Parvati said. “I heard Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass saying how impressive he was. Parkinson was furious. She thinks _darling Draco_ should be getting all the attention.”  
  
Lavender wrinkled her nose. “Are they dating?”  
  
“She only wishes,” said Parvati. “Ugh, I hate her so much. My mother is in the same industry as her mother, they’re all sweet and polite to each other in public but they secretly hate each others’ guts, so Pansy and I have met at far too many work functions… She thinks she’s real funny. She keeps making cracks at my hair.”  
  
Hermione blinked. “Wait, you too?” But Parvati’s hair is so pretty and shiny…  
  
Parvati rolls her eyes. “Ohhh yes. She’s super jealous of you, by the way.”  
  
“Of me?”  
  
“She hates that you’re the Girl-Who-Lived,” explained Parvati. “I don’t know who’s worse, her or Malfoy. The things he was saying about Neville behind his back! He’s awful.”  
  
Hermione’s mouth twisted. All of the warm and fuzzy fellow-feeling she’d had for Parvati vanished in an instant. “It’s interesting that you say that,” she said coldly, “considering how you were talking about Neville the first day of school.”  
  
Parvati’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I,” she started, then paused. “That was different. I—”  
  
Hermione didn’t wait for the excuses. She turned away and marched out of the dorm.  
  
She’d met too many people like Parvati before Hogwarts—hypocritical and two-sided, friendly to her face but cruel behind her back. She wouldn’t fall for it again.  
  
About two corridors away from the Gryffindor common room, Hermione began to doubt herself. Maybe she was being too harsh. No one was perfect, were they? And Parvati had seemed genuine.  
  
Never mind that, she decided firmly. She’d already made her statement on the matter. It wasn’t like she could go back and change her mind now.  
  
  
*  
  
  
In tryouts, Harry beat the current Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, and his dad sent him a shiny new broom via owl post—a Nim-Something-Or-Another, which was apparently supposed to mean something. He opened it at breakfast as slowly and gloatingly as possible so that Malfoy could watch.  
  
Hermione wondered if they gave out free lessons in smirking in the Slytherin common room, because Harry was wearing a rather impressive one.  
  
As a consequence, Harry’s treatment by the rest of the first-years in his house improved. He was no longer exiled to the back of the classroom in Potions, and he’d become on relatively good terms with Millicent Bulstrode, the girl who spoke up against Malfoy that one time, and another Slytherin named Theodore Nott.  
  
Harry confessed that he was worried those friendships were only temporarily and that they’d disappear if he lost a game or got kicked off the Quidditch team. Hermione had no idea how to respond to that and settled for patting his shoulder awkwardly.  
  
Malfoy’s mood worsened dramatically. The number of taunts he leveled at passing Gryffindors grew exponentially. Once Hermione caught him in the act of preparing to curse Neville and threatened to tell a prefect.

But his biggest target wasn’t Harry, or Neville, or even Hermione. It was Ron Weasley.  
  
She didn’t know how she felt about Ron. On one hand, Malfoy despised him and endlessly insulted his family and his financial status, which made her feel sympathetic. And Malfoy’s favorite epithet was “blood traitor,” which made fury burn through her whenever she heard it used as an insult.  
  
On the other hand, Ron was a complete and utter _twit_.  
  
He _infuriated_ her. She would say something perfectly polite and inoffensive, like “Could you pass me that inkwell? I’d quite like to finish this essay before tomorrow,” and he would scoff and roll his eyes and make a huge production out of her “barmy” desire to finish her homework on time.  
  
“He thinks I’m crazy for having a weekly agenda,” Hermione complained to Neville. “Just because _Ronald_ wouldn’t know proper time management if it struck him over the head with a clock—”  
  
“Well,” said Neville tentatively, “most people don't take school as seriously as you do, Hermione.”  
  
“Still! He’s so rude.”  
  
“I don’t think he means to be,” Neville said.  
  
“That doesn’t change the fact that he _is!”_  
  
There was something about him that got on her nerves. She couldn’t even define it properly. It was just... there.  
  
Undefinable annoyingness aside, Ron didn’t deserve the way Malfoy was treating him—though Hermione did think he would be far better off if he would only stop responding to the taunts.  
  
“Watch where you’re going, Weasley,” spat Malfoy, having nearly knocked into Ron while walking out of Potions class.  
  
Ron went bright red. “I didn’t lay a finger on you!”  
  
“And good thing too, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole—”  
  
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want any of that grease you use on your hair rubbing off on my skin,” retorted Ron. “I’d get a rash.”  
  
Apparently Ron had hit on one of Malfoy's sore points, because his face screwed up with fury. “That’s it, Weasley,” he snarled, cheeks turning pale pink. “Crabbe, Goyle—” He gestured to his goons.  
  
Ron took an involuntary step back, then hardened his resolve. “Hiding behind your little friends again, are you?” he challenged.  
  
“I could take you any day,” said Malfoy. “Tonight, even. Wizard’s duel. Wands only. But I suspect you haven’t even heard of a proper wizard’s duel, have you, not with your family?”  
  
“Of course I have,” said Ron. “You’re on.”  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened in horror.  
  
Malfoy sized up his henchmen. “Crabbe can be my second. Who’s yours? Or can’t you find anyone who wants to back you up?”  
  
Seamus Finnigan stepped forward. “I will,” he said firmly, and Ron shot him a grateful look.  
  
“Fine then,” said Malfoy. “We’ll meet at midnight in the trophy room.”  
  
When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Seamus looked at each other grimly. “I don’t know how to do much of anything except send sparks,” said Ron. “How ‘bout you?”  
  
Seamus winced. “I know the leg-locker curse, but that’s it.”  
  
“Better than I got,” said Ron glumly. “Thanks for volunteering, mate.”  
  
Hermione was struggling with herself. Neville shot her a weird look, but she’d already made up her mind.

She walked over to Ron. “Excuse me,” she began.  
  
Ron groaned. “Come off it! Can’t someone walk in peace around here?”  
  
“I couldn’t help but overhear what you were planning, and—”  
  
“Bet you could,” said Ron.  
  
“Ron, I can’t believe you’re letting him rope you into a duel, of all things,” she said. “It’s against the rules, you’ll get caught, and then you’ll get points taken off. Do you really want that to happen to our house?”  
  
“It’s none of your business,” said Seamus.  
  
“It really, really isn’t,” added Ron.  
  
The two walked off blithely, leaving Hermione to stare in affront at their retreating backs.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione tried to ignore Ron’s stupid choices, she really did, but her nerves were more and more frayed as the evening went on. She didn’t want to go up to the girls’ dorm because she was worried about Neville—he had left to retrieve a book he had forgotten in the library, and he hadn’t returned even though that had been hours ago. She didn’t dare venture out after curfew, but she was increasingly terrified that Neville had tripped on a moving staircase and broken his skull.  
  
So when Ron and Seamus crept downstairs at eleven thirty, wands in hand, she couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
“Ron Weasley!” she hissed.  
  
He went _eep_ and whirled around. She crossed her arms. “I almost told your brother—Percy’s a Prefect, he’d put a stop to this—”  
  
“Oh, shut up, will you?” he hissed back, heading for the portrait hole. He shot Seamus an exasperated look, which Seamus returned sympathetically.  
  
She followed them, not caring that she was in her dressing gown. “How are you so selfish? Don’t you care about Gryffindor at all? You’re going to lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells!”  
  
“Go away!”  
  
“Fine, but I warned you, and when you’re in the Headmaster’s office being expelled, you’ll remember that I said—”  
  
She stopped. The portrait hole was closed and the Fat Lady was gone. She was locked out of the common room. Dread dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Now what am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Not our problem,” said Seamus. “We’re gonna be late.”  
  
“Wait! I’m coming with you.”  
  
“You are _not_.”  
  
“Yes I am, what else should I do, wait until Filch shows up?” She scrambled after them down the dark corridor. “If we’re caught I’ll say I was trying to stop you and you can back me up.”  
  
Just as they were turning the bend, Ron stumbled over a prone shape curled against a wall.  
  
“Neville?” gasped Hermione.  
  
Neville blinked. “Oh thank Merlin you’re here, I couldn’t remember the password and the Bloody Baron keeps going past, I was really scared…”  
  
“The password won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere,” said Hermione, helping him up. “Is your wrist alright?”  
  
He nodded yes. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Ron and Seamus are about to do something incredibly stupid,” she said darkly. “I was trying to stop them. Neville, you should come with us so we can back up each other’s explanations.”  
  
Ron looked furious. “Fine, but if either of you gets us caught, I’ll find out whatever that Curse of the Bogies thing Quirrell was telling us about is and I’ll use it on you both.”  
  
Hermione opened her mouth to inform exactly what the Curse of the Bogies was and why it wouldn’t be applicable in this situation, but was interrupted by a faint, mournful miaow.  
  
They froze.  
  
“Is that…” whispered Seamus.  
  
Filch’s croaky voice wafted up the stairs. “Yes, my dear, sniff ‘em out… Students out of bed! We’ll teach them, won’t we?”  
  
Hermione rounded on Ron. “He’s coming for us,” she hissed under her breath. “Us specifically! You know what that means, don’t you?”  
  
“Shut up, he’s coming—”  
  
“It means Malfoy sold you out to Filch!”  
  
Seamus grabbed her by the arm. “We need to move,” he said, and the four of them took off madly down the corridor.  
  
They dashed down a staircase and hurtled into a different moonlight-striped hall. Seamus yanked them into an empty classroom and shut the door, putting his finger over his lips.  
  
The only sound was their breathing.  
  
Then, outside, there was a faint yowl.  
  
“That’s it, Mrs. Norris,” they heard Filch say. “They must have run this way…”  
  
His footsteps were getting louder.  
  
“He found us,” moaned Ron softly. Seamus gestured frantically for him to be quiet.  
  
Hermione felt Neville tugging at her wrist. The red and gold trim on his robes glinted in the moonlight. She looked up to see him gesturing toward the other side of the classroom, where there was another exit.  
  
She tapped Ron and Seamus frantically on the shoulders, and they all headed for the door as silently as possible, but when they pushed it open, the hinges let out a loud creak.  
  
Neville yelped and started to run. The others followed, and someone must have hit a suit of armor with their leg, because it made an ear-splitting _CRASH_ in their wake. Her heart pounded faster than her feet.  
  
At the end of the corridor was a wooden door with a hefty iron padlock. “Over here!”  
  
“It’s locked,” cried Ron.  
  
“Get out of my way!” She shoved him aside and whipped out her wand. “ _Alohomora._ ” They tumbled inside and slammed the door shut behind them.  
  
Seamus let out a long sigh. “There. Bet we lost him now. We should stay here a few minutes, and then—what is it, Neville?”  
  
They all saw it at the same time. Rearing out of the darkness, slobber dribbling from its wicked teeth and pooling on the ground, massive paws the size of her head, and speaking of heads, this creature had _three._  
  
“Oh dear,” said Hermione faintly.  
  
Seamus was the first to move. He held open the door while the others rushed past, then ran alongside them. They didn’t care if Filch caught them or not—they just wanted to escape those monstrous, yellowed fangs.  
  
Finding their way back to the portrait hole was pure luck. Hermione collapsed into it, crying “Pig snout, pig snout!”  
  
It swung open. She grabbed Neville and stumbled through the portrait hole, lungs burning, and collapsed into an armchair. “Seamus,” she said through gritted teeth, “I hope this is the last time you let Ron drag you into this kind of dangerous nonsense.”  
  
Seamus groaned loudly and slumped onto the couch. Ron looked like he wanted to say something, but he was too out of breath.  
  
Neville was breathing as hard as he was, and he looked a bit pale, as if he might faint, but his brows were knit together in thought. “Hey,” he said slowly. “Was that the third floor corridor?”  
  
“I think so, yeah,” said Seamus. “But I kind of don’t want to think about that ever again, thank you very much.”  
  
“I just want to know what that beast is guarding, that’s all,” said Neville.  
  
“Guarding?”  
  
“It was standing on a trapdoor, didn’t you see?”  
  
Hermione’s mind flicked back to the _Daily Prophet_ article about the break-in at Gringotts. Professor McGonagall removed something that she described as the Headmaster’s business, then someone tried to steal it… what if it was removed to be placed in a more secure hiding spot?  
  
For example, under a trapdoor guarded by a gigantic three-headed dog?  
  
She dismissed the thoughts. She was far too exhausted to think clearly in any case, and in all probability those events weren’t connected at all. “I’m going to bed,” she said with finality. “If you plan on more recklessness that ends with us nearly being eaten by a monster, _don’t_ wake me up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my favorite things about the hp books is the portrayal of friendship, and i love how male and female characters are allowed to be friends without it automatically involving romance. in other words, jkr avoids the "he was a boy, she was a girl, can i make it any more obvious?" effect. that's the kind of platonic portrayal i'm trying to go for with harry and hermione in this fic. (also, they're eleven years old, which is way too young for all that.)


	9. Disconnections

_Dear Aunt Leanne,_ she wrote. _Did you know today was the day Mum and Dad died?_  
  
It was Halloween, around four in the morning. She had been unable to sleep. Hermione was in the common room, curled up in an armchair, hand trembling as she tried to write a letter home.  
  
_You never told me that,_ she wrote. _I had to learn about it from books written by people I’ve never met. Everyone here knew what happened to them before I did. I don’t understand why you never told me._  
  
It was nearing sunrise, but the world was still unlit. Her parchment was illuminated only dimly, and darkness lingered in the room. She could almost feel it weighing down her arms, as if she was floating in murky water.  
  
_What was so terrible about my magic? Did you hate it? Were you afraid of it? Magic is a part of me. It’s a more important part of me than anything else in the world._  
  
Her quill scratched away into the daylight.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Parvati entered the common room at six thirty and came to an abrupt stop in front of Hermione’s armchair. Hermione had just finished ripping up her “letter” and was staring blankly out at the grounds.  
  
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Parvati said. “I’m usually the first one down.”  
  
There were festive cobwebs strung around the window. Last night, the Weasley twins had turned them various colors and strung all sorts of amusing ornaments in the webs, to the entertainment of the rest of Gryffindor. Right now, to Hermione, the merriment of that moment felt as far away as the other side of the Atlantic. “I got up early to do some homework,” she said in a flat, dull voice.  
  
“Listen,” said Parvati hesitantly. “I know we, um, got off on the wrong foot a while back. So I wanted to say that—well—I’m sorry that I called Neville a loser on our first day. I didn’t know him that well, and I didn’t know you were close friends.”  
  
Hermione’s jaw tightened. “Are you sorry because it was an awful thing to say about someone you’d never met, or because you didn’t know it would make me mad?”  
  
There was a long pause. Then Parvati said, “Why are you like this?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“It was a dumb thing to say and I apologized, but it’s never good enough, not for _you_ ,” said Parvati.  
  
Hermione glanced at her. Parvati’s arms were crossed over her chest, and she looked quite angry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hermione.  
  
“I see the way you look at me and Lavender. You think that because—because I know what _lipstick_ is, I’m an idiot—but I know when I’m being looked down on—”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re smart, Granger, but you’re not better than me.”  
  
“I never said I was—”  
  
“I’m not an idiot,” Parvati said, cold and quiet. “You don’t say it, but it’s what you think. You roll your eyes and shake your head and go all condescending when I talk about my interests, because you think they’re not as important as yours, because it doesn’t involve a big stack of books and it’s something you think only _self-centered_ and _gossipy_ girls like to do.”  
  
“That’s not—”  
  
“Shut up,” said Parvati. “I know your life isn’t perfect, but neither is mine, and neither is Lavender’s, and you don’t get to go and act like you do and then criticize me for one comment.”  
  
The hollow melancholy in the pit of Hermione’s stomach was giving way to an indignant kind of fury. “Excuse me, I’m acting ‘like I do’ about ‘one comment’ because I’ve met people like you before, and—”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me!” Parvati shouted. “You look at my clothes and my friends and you—you’re just like Pansy Parkinson in some ways, you just—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It’s interesting that you think I’m self-centered and hypocritical, considering the way you act around me.”  
  
Parvati went up the stairs up to their dorm, hair whipping behind her in its glossy braid.  
  
Hermione was still and silent for several minutes. The sun was spilling warm golden light across the common room, but she didn’t feel it. She kept hearing Parvati’s words over and over in her mind, and she knew she should be feeling something (confusion? anger? regret?), but she only felt empty.  
  
  
*  
  
  
At breakfast, Neville tried to ask her what was wrong. She stood up, nearly knocking over her water goblet, and said she needed to go to the library for some last minute studying.  
  
“We don’t have any tests today,” he protested, but she was already gone.  
  
  
*  
  
  
In Transfiguration, Hermione and Parvati avoided making eye contact with each other. Lavender kept glancing between the two of them with a worried expression, but evidently didn’t feel brave enough to talk and risk Professor McGonagall’s wrath.  
  
Hermione had never been so distracted during a lesson before. Everything felt so very far away.  
  
Professor McGonagall asked her to stay behind after class.  
  
Hermione stood in front of her desk as the other students filtered out. The professor saw Neville lingering with a concerned expression and said firmly, “You too, Longbottom.”  
  
Once he was gone, Professor McGonagall affixed Hermione with a stern but compassionate look. “I understand today is a difficult day for you,” she said. “If you ever need an adult’s ear, you may come to my office. After all, that is one of the functions of a Head of House.”  
  
Hermione blinked. Something had snapped within her, and suddenly the world felt real again. A rush of sorrow hit her in the gut, and she looked at the ground. “I don’t feel like talking right now, but thank you, professor,” she said in a small voice. She didn’t feel like confiding in her strict teacher, but she appreciated the offer.  
  
Professor McGonagall sighed. “In that case, you should catch up with your classmates, Miss Granger.”  
  
Hermione thanked her again and hurried to Charms. She had to run a bit, but she arrived before Professor Flitwick had come out of his office.  
  
She slowed just before she walked through the classroom door. She could hear Parvati and Lavender talking in low tones.  
  
“—compared her to Parkinson? That’s a bit harsh,” Lavender was saying.  
  
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”  
  
“Parvati, this is the anniversary of her _parents’ death._ ”  
  
There was silence. “Oh,” said Parvati quietly.  
  
Hermione chose that moment to walk in, refusing to look at her roommates. She intended to take her seat next to Neville, but her usual spot had been taken by Dean Thomas. He gave her an apologetic wince, and she instead placed her bag next to the only open seat, which happened to be next to Ron.  
  
Professor Flitwick came in and announced that they would be reviewing Levitation Charms, which they’d began studying nearly a month ago but few had been able to accomplish.  
  
“Partner up, partner up,” Flitwick called. “With the person next to you, though.”  
  
Ron glared at her resentfully. She returned the look.  
  
Flitwick gave them a feather to practice on, and Hermione pushed it toward Ron. “Well?” she said.  
  
“Well, what?” Ron demanded.  
  
“Well, are you going to do the spell? I already know it.”  
  
“Of course you do,” he muttered. He took out his wand and began… she supposed she could call it practicing, if she were feeling charitable. It mostly consisted of violently poking the feather with his wandtip, shouting a vague approximation of the incantation, and scowling when it didn’t work.  
  
Eventually she rolled her eyes and snapped, “It’s _Win-GAR-dium levi-OH-sa,_ with the _gar_ nice and long, not whatever nonsense you were choking out.”  
  
“You do it then, if you’re so clever,” he said.  
  
She pushed up her sleeve. “ _Wingardium leviosa_.” The feather rose gently into the air.  
  
Flitwick caught sight of it and clapped his hands. “Well done, well done! Everyone look, Miss Granger’s got it!”  
  
This put Ron in even fouler of a mood than before, and as she left, he heard him remarking loudly to Seamus, “She’s a terror, honestly, it’s no wonder she’s got no one but Neville—”  
  
Suddenly it was all too much. She wished she could go back to feeling numb. Tears filled her eyes, and she dropped her book bag on the floor in her rush to get away.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The girls’ bathroom really was a good place to cry. No one ever went inside, probably because of Moaning Myrtle, and she was undisturbed for a full hour before she heard a faint splash from outside the stall.  
  
She turned, rubbing her eyes. “Hi, Myrtle,” she said tiredly.

“Hello,” sang the ghost, dangling over the stall door with her chin in her transparent hands. “Your eyes look terrible! All red and blotchy.”  
  
“Thanks, Myrtle,” she said. “You sure know how to cheer up a person.”  
  
“Sorry,” said Myrtle unapologetically. “What happened this time?”  
  
Hermione sighed and described her day from beginning to end. “And on top of all that, it’s Halloween, and everyone is supposed to be happy and silly and I’m… not. My parents died ten years ago today. I don’t know how to be happy about that.”  
  
Outside, she could hear the murmurings of a large crowd. She was missing the Halloween feast. Everyone had been excited about the delicious pumpkin-themed food that was being prepared for today.  
  
She sniffled. She didn’t feel very hungry.  
  
“I think that’s a very reasonable thing to be not happy about,” said Myrtle. “Did Ron Weasley and Parvati Patil know today was the day that… you know?”  
  
Hermione frowned. “I know Parvati didn’t. And I don’t think Ron did either.”  
  
“Hmm. Well, what they said was terrible and all, but I don’t think they would have said those things if they knew about today.”  
  
_THUD. THUD._  
  
“What was that?” said Hermione.  
  
_THUD. THUD._  
  
Myrtle craned her neck over her shoulder and shrieked. She rocketed into the air and flew into the nearest toilet with a gigantic splash.  
  
Hermione felt a tingling on the back of her neck. She went on her tiptoes very, very slowly and peered over the top of the stall.  
  
There was a troll in the doorway.  
  
It was twelve feet tall, with grotesque, bulging muscles and huffing breath. There was a gnarled club in its hand. It was sniffing around like it could smell her. Her breath froze in her throat.  
  
It lumbered slowly forward— _THUD, THUD_ —and Hermione knew that if it found her inside the stall, she would have nowhere to go. It would squash her like a bug.  
  
Fingers shaking, she unlatched the door and stumbled out. It roared, spotting her, and smashed its club into the ground. The entire bathroom shook.  
  
It was blocking the exit, and she had no choice but to retreat to the opposite wall. _THUD. THUD._ It swiped its club across the wall of sinks, tearing them out of the plaster with a deafening crash.  
  
She pressed her back against the cold tiles and screamed.  
  
Then she heard a muffled voice from outside. “She’s in here!”  
  
…Neville?  
  
The troll’s ears waggled, like it was listening to something. A moment later, Neville ran inside, eyes wide with fright. “It’s here, it’s here!”  
  
And right on his heels were—she couldn’t believe it—Ron Weasley and Parvati Patil.  
  
“Distract it!” shouted Parvati. She picked up a broken tap and threw it against the wall. The troll turned, startled at the sound, and roared.  
  
“Oy, pea brain!” That was Ron, hoisting a metal pipe and throwing it in the troll’s direction. The troll barely noticed the pipe, but it made a sound of confusion and took a step toward Ron—a step away from Hermione.  
  
“Come on, run! You need to run!” Parvati yelled at her, but she couldn’t move. Her bones felt like lead.  
  
That’s when Neville did something very brave and very stupid.  
  
He ran at the troll, took a flying leap, and got his arms around its neck. Because of the angle he jumped from, his wand ended up in the troll’s nose. Far up the troll’s nose. It made a deep-throated growl of pain and flailed, trying to shake Neville off, but he wouldn’t budge, face seized in a rictus of terror, arms locked in place.  
  
Later, Hermione would wish she had the courage and quick instincts to have done something, but she didn’t. She was paralyzed by fear. She sunk down the wall and collapsed onto her legs, watching helplessly.  
  
Ron raised his wand and cried, “ _Wingardium leviosa!_ ”  
  
The _gar_ was enunciated perfectly.  
  
The troll’s club left its hand and levitated slowly and gently in the air. The troll grunted in surprise and looked up, just in time for Ron to release the spell and let the club land squarely on its forehead.  
  
The troll collapsed.  
  
Neville rolled off and lay flat on his back. “Merlin,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I did that.”  
  
Hermione stared at Neville’s wand. It was coated in goopy snot. “You’ve got troll boogers on your wand,” she told him.  
  
“Oh.” He seemed too shell-shocked to process what she was saying.  
  
“I think it’s unconscious, not dead,” said Parvati, eyeing the fallen troll. “We should go tell a teacher.”  
  
“Think they’re already here,” Ron croaked.  
  
He was right: footsteps thundered outside, and Professor McGonagall appeared, with Snape and Quirrell behind her. Quirrell took one look at the troll and had to sit down, Snape went to examine the troll, and Professor McGonagall…well, she looked angrier than Hermione had ever seen her.  
  
“What were you thinking?” she bellowed at the three rescuers. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”  
  
Neville pushed himself up on his elbows. “Um, professor…”  
  
“What, Longbottom?” she snapped.  
  
“Hermione was missing at the feast, ma’am,” he said. “She didn’t know about the troll. When I figured out she was gone, I asked Parvati if she knew what happened, and she said she thought Hermione was in the girl’s bathroom. There was all this confusion and I didn’t see any teachers anywhere, so we grabbed Ron because he was closest, and we went to tell her ourselves. We didn’t know the troll and Hermione would be in the same spot.”  
  
“Is this true?” the professor demanded, turning to Ron and Parvati.  
  
They nodded. Ron’s frayed robes were covered in grime and looked like they needed to be scrapped, and Parvati’s hair had escaped its braid and was wafting around her face.  
  
Hermione said quietly, “He’s right, professor. When they—when they got here, the troll had me cornered. Parvati confused it and Neville tackled it and then Ron knocked it out by levitating its club. If they hadn’t been here, I’d be dead.” Her knees felt like jelly as she met McGonagall’s shrewd stare.  
  
Snape finished surveying the troll and went to murmur something quietly to McGonagall, who frowned. They exchanged a few quick words, and Snape stalked out. McGonagall turned back to the students. “You are all unharmed?”  
  
They nodded.  
  
“Then I’ll award five points to each of you. Next time, inform a staff member or prefect first, if at all possible. You came out unscathed due to admirable daring, but mostly due to luck, do you understand?”  
  
They nodded again, exchanging excited looks.  
  
“Good. Now hurry along to your common room.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione wanted to head straight to bed—she was exhausted to the bone, and felt quite incapable of emotionally processing recent events—but Neville caught her arm.  
  
He waited for Ron and Parvati to go up to their dorms. Then Neville said, “I know what today is. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh,” said Hermione. “No offense, but I’m tired, and…”  
  
She stopped at the expression on his face: sad, knowing, a little wistful.  
  
“My parents aren’t around either, you know,” he said. “You could have talked to me.”  
  
“Oh,” she said again. “I’m sorry, Neville, I forgot. I mean… I didn’t forget, I just…” She frowned. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it.”  
  
“Yeah, I get it,” he said, and he sounded like he really did get it. “But if you ever do, I’m here, okay?”  
  
He gave her a quick hug, and left for bed.


	10. A Question of Bravery

“I heard about the troll,” said Harry. “I’m glad you’re okay.”  
  
“Yes, well,” she said, “it was quite scary at the time, but Neville and Parvati and Ron showed up and saved me. I just wish I could have been a bit more useful.”  
  
“You didn’t die, you didn’t pass out, and you didn’t make it worse,” said Harry. “Sounds like you did okay to me.”  
  
She shrugged.   
  
“By the way,” he said, “I have this Transfiguration essay that’s due in two hours, so if you could do me a _huge_ favor…?”  
  
Grateful for the change of topic, she took the essay with raised eyebrows and scanned it. “Your handwriting is atrocious,” she commented. “Alright, so you missed a point about form resonances here…”  
  
They discussed his homework. Hermione was glad that he wasn’t pressing her with questions. It was almost odd—nearly everyone had wanted to know what had happened, and she was quite tired of admitting that she had done nothing but tremble against the far wall and be a victim.   
  
Neville was mostly in agreement; he said he went through the ordeal one time already and didn’t feel like reliving it over and over. On the other hand, Ron had enjoyed giving Seamus and Dean a play-by-play of how he had knocked out the troll, and Parvati had relayed the entire business to Lavender in great detail.  
  
“I thought it was going to kill me. I was terrified,” said Parvati with a shudder.  
  
“You didn’t seem scared, though,” Hermione objected from her perch on her bed. “You were in control. When it was all over, we were all shell-shocked, but you were calm.”  
  
Parvati was thoughtful. “I don’t know. I was scared, but we were all in danger and I had to _do_ things, and it was like the fear couldn’t touch me. I only started shaking when we came back to our rooms. You know what I mean?”  
  
Hermione didn’t know what she meant. Her fear had never been so accommodating as to conveniently abandon her in a moment of crisis.  
  
“Anyways,” said Parvati, flouncing over to the mirror and fixing her hair. “I’m glad it’s done and that you’re not dead. Though I still think you’re condescending sometimes.”  
  
“I’m condescending?” said Hermione. “An hour ago I said I didn’t know how to use hairspray and you tittered at me!”  
  
“I do not ‘titter’,” Parvati protested.  
  
“Yes you do, it’s this short, high-pitched little giggle and—”  
  
Lavender groaned and made a production of burying her head under her pillow.  
  
It was hard to identify precisely what had changed, but the animosity that had their arguments had held before the troll incident simply was no longer present. Parvati’s accusations of condescension were almost fond, and Hermione found herself unable to hold a few giggles against her, however high-pitched and targeted.  
  
In most ways, nothing had changed at all. Hermione’s best friend was still Neville, and Parvati’s was Lavender. Parvati still had little patience for Neville’s forgetfulness, although she now carried a few extra quills and inkwells in the inevitable event that he forgot his own. Hermione was still unable to hold a conversation with Parvati for long without becoming frustrated over something inconsequential, although she now leapt to her defense when Parkinson got nasty about Parvati’s fashion choices.  
  
She tried to introduce Parvati to Harry. The resulting conversation was unbearably awkward for everyone involved. After ten minutes, Parvati made an excuse and left the library as quickly as possible. Then Harry remarked, “At least you two aren’t fighting anymore. I think if that got any more awkward, the shelves would have caught fire.”  
  
However friendly they now were, Parvati still spent her free time with Lavender.   
  
“It’s probably for the best that you’re not hanging out with us constantly,” Lavender once said blithely. “Sometimes I worry that you and Parvati will explode if you spend too much time together. You’re both so convinced you’re _right_ all the time.”  
  
The heated denials and raised voices that followed this comment continued for about an hour, until Ron hollered at them from the other side of the wall to keep it down so the guys could sleep.  
  
Once the two roommates were friends, of a sort, they began realizing new things about each other. Hermione learned that Parvati was obnoxiously cheerful in the mornings, and she generally woke to the sound of out-of-tune humming, even on weekends.  
  
“Your shirt is inside out,” chirped Parvati one early November morning as they went down to breakfast.  
  
“Your Charms essay is two days late,” Hermione shot back. Then she finally noticed Parvati’s clothes and did a double-take. “Why on earth are you wearing so much pink?”  
  
“I’m trying to reclaim the color. Pink deserves better than Parkinson’s hair bow.”  
  
Hermione also learned that Parvati had a debilitating fear of heights. On more than one occasion, a staircase had moved suddenly and thrown her against the railing, at which point her face turned milky white and she clutched desperately at Hermione’s arm. “We’re high up,” she muttered frantically, nails digging into Hermione’s skin. “We’re high up…”  
  
She recovered once Hermione had guided her off the steps. One time, looking ashamed, she mumbled, “Some Gryffindor I am.”  
  
“You fought a mountain troll,” Hermione reminded her.  
  
Parvati learned that Hermione rarely dreamed, but when she did, it was a terrible nightmare.

She heard Hermione fling herself away in the middle of the night, gasping and choking off a scream, and Parvati stayed up with her until sunrise.  
  
The lamp cast golden light across the room, and while Hermione shivered and fiddled with the sheets, Parvati talked about something else. She talked about vacations to visit her family in India, and her mother’s work as a fashion journalist, and how much she hated Transfiguration.  
  
“Professor McGonagall is my favorite teacher,” said Hermione finally, after half an hour of silence.  
  
“She’s an old hag who assigns homework over holidays,” retorted Parvati. She rubbed at the bags under her eyes. “And she keeps taking points off me.”  
  
“That’s because you and Lavender keep talking,” said Hermione. She paused and cast her gaze downward. “I was dreaming about laughter. And there was a crash, and then this green light, and I don’t know why it’s so scary but it _is_.”  
  
“Sounds a bit like Parkinson,” said Parvati. “Her laugh sounds like a banshee, don’t you think?”  
  
Hermione had to agree. Parkinson was a good example of someone who shouldn’t be scary, but was.  
  
There was one more new element in Hermione’s life, and that was Ron Weasley.  
  
With Ron as well, there were may things that went unchanged. Ron’s eyebrows still scrunched up when Hermione announced her intent to get her homework done early, although he didn’t complain when she corrected his Astronomy charts for him. Hermione still called him _Ronald_ when she was particularly nettled, although she rolled her eyes less when he started going on and on about Quidditch.   
  
Neville was still Hermione’s best friend—Neville would always be her best friend—and Ron still spent time with Dean and Seamus. But he spent a few free periods with them several times a week, and Hermione was utterly shocked to find that after a while, having him around was as natural as breathing.  
  
Now that they were friends, Ron and Hermione began to discover new things about each other. Hermione learned that Ron’s sibling count was seven in total, and that his parents had been trying for a seventh son since that was a very magically powerful number, except the last one had been a girl.   
  
“Her name’s Ginny and she’s terrible,” Ron said. “She’s all nice and shy in front of strangers, but at home she’s got a right hook like you don’t even know.”  
  
Ron learned that Hermione detested her fame and wished people would remember her for something else than a scar, and that she liked cats, and that listening to her could save him an exploded cauldron in Potions.  
  
“I hate to say it,” said Hermione, “but you could probably save yourself a lot of trouble if you partnered with Dean instead of Seamus. He could burn water.”  
  
“Kind of true,” Ron acknowledged. “D’you reckon it’s an elemental affinity, or is he just unlucky?”  
  
Hermione sat up straighter and leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Elemental affinity? Is that a thing? I’ve never heard of that before—do you know of any books I could read on it?”  
  
Ron looked alarmed at the mention of books. “I dunno, it’s just common knowledge, I guess, I suppose it’s kind of rare…”  
  
Hermione learned that Ron was disturbingly good at chess. She remembered the first time he asked her to play—he had sounded hopeful, and she had said yes. It had been a while since she last played, but she remembered a few good strategies gleaned from chess-related books she’d checked out from the local library.  
  
“Good luck,” said Neville sympathetically. “He keeps beating everyone in our dorm. No one will play against him anymore.”  
  
Half an hour later, Hermione found herself staring down at a board where she had been checkmated and wondering how the hell she’d gotten there. She demanded a rematch. He beat her again, faster this time.   
  
She wondered if the excessively violent way wizard’s chess pieces whacked at each other was putting her off her strategy. She challenged him again, and again. After a fifth lost chess game, she asked, “How did you do that?”  
  
Ron looked confused. “I got my queen in position and I checkmated you.”  
  
“But how did you _do_ it?”  
  
He tried to walk her through his strategy, and everything he said made sense, but she couldn’t figure out how he had determined precisely what to do for the life of her. “You’re good at this,” she said accusingly.  
  
“Yeah,” he said.  
  
She watched him challenge his brother Percy, who sighed in a put-upon manner and lost to him a few times. Then Ron tried to rope his twin brothers into a game, and they agreed—George playing him and Fred whispering suggestions in his ear—but Ron started shouting at them once he realized they were stealing random pieces and hiding them when he wasn’t looking.  
  
While she watched, she came to an awful, terrible conclusion: Ron was smart. Very smart. Just not, apparently, in a way that had anything to do with grades.  
  
And that was it, she realized, that was why she had found him so inexplicably irritating—he was smart, but he was also an idiot with a talent for putting his foot in his mouth, and when it came to schoolwork he hardly even _tried._ It wasn’t like with Neville, who tried hard but suffered from a minor lack of firepower and a major lack of confidence. She was more and more convinced that Ron could get good marks in all his classes if only he applied himself.

She suspected that if she ever said anything about it to him, he would accuse her of sounding like Professor McGonagall.  
  
“Well,” said Neville when she was done venting her feelings on the subject of Ron Weasley. “I think he just has different priorities than you.”  
  
She groaned and buried her face in a book. Thank God she was fond of Ron by now, or otherwise she might go insane after seven years in his company.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Neville and Hermione were in the library, and as usual, Harry was going on and on about Quidditch.  
  
“…not sure how they’ll play considering the weather conditions, since India’s climate is so different from Sweden’s,” Harry was saying. “But all that aside, I really do think Finland has a solid chance at winning the Cup this year.”  
  
Hermione sighed. “I should introduce you to Ron sometime. You could talk about broomstick football together.”  
  
“ _Broomstick football?_ _"_  
  
“Actually,” said Neville. “That’s not a bad idea.”  
  
“Broomstick football is a terrible idea,” said Hermione. “Wizards invented it and now they’re making me take a class on it once a week.” It went without saying that flying class was her least favorite subject.

“ _Broomstick football?_ _"_ Harry repeated.  
  
“No, I mean introducing Ron and Harry,” said Neville.  
  
Harry shook his head as if to rid his brain of the phrase 'broomstick football'. He propped his chin on his hand. “Ron Weasley? Your troll-fighting buddy? The one who’s always picking a fight with Malfoy?”  
  
“It’s usually M-Malfoy picking a fight with him, I think,” Neville said.  
  
The next time they went to meet Harry in the library, they brought Ron.  
  
“Where are we going?” Ron asked as Neville tugged him down the corridor.  
  
“The library,” Neville said. “We want you to meet our friend Harry.”  
  
Ron stopped in his tracks, and Neville nearly overbalanced before Hermione caught his arm. “Harry Potter? Come off it,” Ron said. “He’s a Slytherin and a snotty rich kid.”  
  
“Harry’s not rich,” said Neville.  
  
“Yes he is, you just don’t think so because you’re rich too,” said Ron. “And besides, he’s a huge show-off. Remember that thing with your Remembrall? And he’s always going around the castle like ‘ooh, look at me, youngest Seeker in a century, I can get away with anything’… it’s so annoying.”  
  
“No he doesn’t,” Neville protested. “And I don’t think it’s a bad thing he got my Remembrall back for me. I think he was really brave, standing up to Malfoy like that.”  
  
“Harry’s nice,” said Hermione. “Really, are you going to let a childish thing like house rivalry decide who you hang out with?”  
  
“Don’t give me that, Hermione, you were pretty keen on house rivalry when McGonagall docked Parkinson those points yesterday—”  
  
“That’s different! That’s Parkinson! We’re talking about Harry, and I think you two might get along,” said Hermione. “You can talk about the Chudley Cannons together. That’s—that’s their name, right? Your Quidditch team?”  
  
“Please, Ron?” Neville said hopefully.  
  
Ron’s expression was still doubtful, but he let his friends steer him toward the library. When they walked up to Harry and their usual table, Ron trailed behind them in the stiff manner of a prisoner walking the plank.  
  
“Hi, Harry,” said Neville. “We brought Ron.”  
  
Harry glanced up from his homework. “Oh. Er. Hullo.”  
  
“Hullo,” said Ron, staring at him distrustfully.  
  
“So,” said Harry.  
  
“So,” echoed Ron.  
  
“Hermione says you like Quidditch,” said Harry, and shot Hermione a look that said, _Are you happy now?_  
  
“Yeah?” Ron said challengingly.  
  
“So, what’s your team?” said Harry.  
  
“Chudley Cannons.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Really? Er—I mean—”  
  
Ron’s face was getting redder. “Oh yeah? What do you mean?”  
  
“Nothing,” said Harry quickly.   
  
“Just ‘cause they’re at the bottom of the league this year doesn’t mean they’re not a good team,” Ron said hotly.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” said Harry.  
  
“Good!”   
  
Ron and Harry glared at each other. Hermione and Neville traded despairing glances.  
  
  
*  
  
  
It was a quiet, tranquil afternoon. Light trickled through the stained glass windows set into the side of the library, casting red and orange patches of light across the table. She spent a moment taking in the surroundings, books closed, breathing in the scent of new parchment and old wood.   
  
“Hey,” said Harry.  
  
She jumped a little. “Where did you learn to sneak up on people like that?”  
  
“Evening seminars on surreptitious scheming in the Slytherin common room,” said Harry, deadpan.   
  
She whacked him in the arm with a book and he made a big show of wincing and rubbing at his shoulder. “You’ve wounded me, I’m going to _die_ ,” he said, putting on a hurt expression. “I never expected this betrayal…”  
  
Hermione raised the book threateningly.  
  
Unfortunately, Madam Pince swooped down before she could follow through. After a stern scolding that left Harry unrepentant and Hermione feeling very embarrassed, they calmed down enough to actually get out their homework.  
  
Halfway through their Herbology essay, Harry set down his quill. Hermione looked up to see what was the matter and found him wearing an unusually serious expression. “Hermione, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Harry glanced around furtively, then lowered his voice. “You know the third floor corridor? The forbidden one?”  
  
Hermione thought back to Ron and Seamus’s ill-fated midnight duel. “Yes?”  
  
“Well, there’s a three-headed dog underneath it, and it’s guarding a trapdoor,” said Harry. “And I know it sounds like a stretch, but bear with me on this—I think Dumbledore is guarding something, and Snape is trying to steal it.”  
  
Hermione blinked rapidly. “Okay,” she said. “First of all, how did you find all that out? And second, why _Snape?”_  
  
“I think he let that troll into the dungeons as a distraction,” said Harry grimly. “I saw him heading toward the corridor on Halloween, and he’s been limping ever since.”  
  
“Harry, he’s a Hogwarts professor, he’s not a thief.”  
  
“Why are you so sure? Theodore Nott’s father knew him while they were at school, I’ve heard stories around the dorms, I wouldn’t put it past him—”  
  
“That’s only gossip,” Hermione said scathingly.  
  
“I don’t think it is,” he said. “Look, you didn’t see him, after I heard Parvati say you had been in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom all afternoon, I saw—”   
  
He stopped mid-sentence, dread dawning across his face. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You told me that you had no idea I was missing at the Halloween feast,” she said. “You said that if you had, you would have done something about it.”  
  
He swallowed. “I—I meant to say—”  
  
“Tell me the truth."  
  
“I’m sorry, alright?” he burst out. “I realized you were gone and that bathroom was in the dungeons and the _troll_ was in the dungeons and—and I got scared, okay?”  
  
“Did you know that Parvati and Ron and Neville had decided to go after me?”  
  
“No I didn’t, are you happy now? I thought you were trapped with a troll and there was no one to help you and I still didn’t try to help you,” he said. “I wanted to tell a teacher but there weren’t any around, and I was too scared to go after you. I’m _sorry_.”  
  
Hermione stared at him like he was a stranger. He looked miserable. She didn’t know how to feel.  
  
“I’m not brave like you,” he said. “Sorry.”  
  
He gathered his books into his arms and left.  
  
*  
  
  
“Parvati, have you seen Harry anywhere?”  
  
Parvati glanced up from her magazine. “No. Have you seen Lavender?”  
  
“I think she’s in detention,” said Hermione. During their last flying lesson, Parkinson had said something mean about Parvati’s hair, and then Lavender got caught trying to knock Parkinson off her broom.  
  
Parvati made a face. “Aww. Too bad. Why do you want to talk to Potter? I thought you had regular scheduled meeting times or something.”  
  
“We had a… an argument.” She wasn’t sure how to label their confrontation. She’d felt betrayed at first, but she couldn’t hold a grudge—after all, she hadn’t even been brave enough to run when Parvati told her to. Her feelings were in messy tangles and she was hoping that if she talked to Harry, it would all sort itself out.  
  
“Sounds tough,” said Parvati, rather unsympathetically. “Maybe ask Neville?”  
  
Neville was out on the grounds, observing a Wandering Shrub in its natural habitat on the edge of the Forbidden Forest for an extra credit essay for Professor Sprout. By the time he returned, Hermione was the only one in the common room.  
  
“Hello, ‘Mione,” he said, clambering through the portrait hole. “You alright? You look a bit tired.”  
  
“Neville, you’re bleeding,” she said, pointing to his hand.   
  
He pulled up his sleeve and squinted at the long, shallow scratch running down the back of his hand, oozing blood. “Oh dear,” he said sadly. “I can’t remember if this is from the shrub or if I just hit a sharp table edge on the way back…”  
  
“Here,” she said. _“Scourgify.”_   
  
Nothing changed. She frowned and tried again, enunciating more clearly this time. “ _Scourgify_.”  
  
The blood cleaned itself up and the smudge of dirt on his skin vanished, leaving only a thin line. “Wow,” he said, impressed. “Isn’t that a third-year spell?”  
  
“I’m not quite sure, I saw a prefect use it the other day and thought it could be useful,” she said. “That’s only a cleaning charm to get the dirt out of the wound, though, I don’t know how to do healing spells. You should go to Madam Pomfrey.”  
  
He shook his head. “It’s fine, it’ll heal on its own.”  
  
“By the way, have you seen Harry anywhere?”  
  
“No. Why?”  
  
“We… we had an argument. Or something like that. I’m not sure I should tell you all the details. It’s kind of personal. Not for me, for Harry.”  
  
“That’s okay, I don’t mind,” said Neville. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll get through it. You’re the kind of person who always get through things. Just let me know if you want to talk, alright?” He gave her a kind smile.  
  
She felt a sudden rush of affection for her first friend, who was too nervous to raise his hand in class but brave enough to attack a mountain troll with his fists. Her best friend, who was more confident around plants than people, who was always doubting himself but never once doubted her.  
  
“Neville,” she said, and hesitated. Broaching the subject felt precarious, as if she was standing on the edge of a glacier with an icy cold spreading through her toes. “Can I ask you a personal question?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“After the incident with the troll, you… you mentioned your parents, and how they were dead, and… can I ask… do you ever miss them? I miss my parents sometimes. Even though my Aunt Leanne is there, and I never knew them anyway.”  
  
He stilled. He marked his place and closed his book carefully, then straightened it so it was parallel to the table edge. He kept his head down, hiding his face. He said, “My parents aren’t dead.”  
  
Hermione froze. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just—the way you talk about them—and after Halloween—”  
  
“It’s alright,” he said. “They were tortured, actually. By people who served You-Know-Who. They were Aurors, and also part of this organization that Dumbledore was in charge of. It was right after you got rid of You-Know-Who, and his followers thought my parents might know what had happened to him. The torture made them lose their minds.”  
  
“That’s terrible,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” he repeated, giving her a tiny, strained echo of his usual smile. “I visit them every month. Wait here.” He disappeared upstairs.  
  
Neville returned with a wooden box. He opened it and showed her a pile of gum wrappers. “Gran thinks they don’t recognize me, but I think they do. My mum gives one of these to me every time she sees me. Gran says to throw them away, but I never do.”  
  
Hermione wondered which was worse, what happened to her parents or to Neville’s. At least her parents were given a chance to die with dignity. Or would it be better if they were alive, even if she could never be sure whether they recognized her or not?  
  
She rested a finger on the edge of the wooden box. It gleamed brown-gold in the afternoon light. “It sounds like you think about them a lot.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Sometimes I hardly ever think about my parents,” she confessed. “For months and months, even. Aunt Leanne… I call her my aunt, but she’s like a mum, most of the time. And sometimes she’s not, or at least I don’t think so, and then I think about my parents. Does that make me a bad person? If I only think about them when things aren’t going well for me?”  
  
“Well, I don’t think so,” said Neville. “They wouldn’t want you to miss them every day.”  
  
She sighed.  
  
They sat in silence, a bond of contemplation and familiarity stretched between them. Eventually Neville said, “Do you mind not mentioning this to our friends? I just—we’re pretty similar, you and me, but I’m not sure they would get it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I’m not ashamed,” he said quickly. “I’m not. I just don’t want them to pity me all the time.”  
  
“I know,” she said. “Do you want to play chess? Ron isn’t here, so one of us can actually win. Maybe we can convince the pieces not to attack each other.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
She came across Harry in the owlery. She had come to mail a letter to her aunt, and she found Harry petting his beautiful snowy owl. He froze when he saw her.  
  
“Hi,” she said.  
  
He kept his focus on his owl. She approached him slowly, like a deer in a forest she was afraid of startling. She saw his shoulders tense as she came closer.   
  
“I think you’re brave,” she said firmly.  
  
He flinched. “What?” He was confused.  
  
“I think you’re brave,” she repeated. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m upset that you lied to me, but I don’t think you’re an irredeemable coward or anything.”  
  
His brows scrunched together. “You could have died. You would have died, if the others hadn’t been there. I was selfish. It’s my fault.”  
  
“Harry,” she said patiently. “You were about as functional and useful and brave as I was. Probably more.”  
  
“That’s not true,” he said, shaking his head. “You—”  
  
She remembered crouching against the wall, huddled in terror, while her best friend and two people who owed her nearly nothing risked their lives. She remembered Professor McGonagall handing her a letter and telling her that her parents had died for her. She remembered a flash of green light. She remembered asking the Hat for _something more_ and the Hat giving her Gryffindor.   
  
“I froze up,” she said. “Neville, Parvati, Ron—they all could have died. Parvati told me to run, she attacked a troll just to tell me to run, and I couldn’t even do that. If she died, it would have been my fault. So stop beating yourself up, because you’re only as much of a coward as I am, if not less.”  
  
“I’m not brave.”  
  
She glared at him. “I already had one emotional heart-to-heart today, alright, and I don’t need another one, so could you just listen to me? I get things right a considerable majority of the time, in case you forgot.”  
  
“Hermione,” he said, “I asked for Gryffindor. I wanted Gryffindor so badly. But the Sorting Hat, which can literally see inside my brain, by the way, in case you forgot, told me ‘no, no, that won’t be suitable at all,’ and then—you know the rest.”  
  
“Can we not do this? Can we not endlessly repeat all the mistakes we’ve made and all the things we don’t like about ourselves? It’s only going to end up with us both feeling depressed, and I have a test tomorrow, so I’d much rather spend the time studying,” said Hermione. “You’ve said you’re sorry and you’ll try and do better next time. We’re done here.”  
  
Harry stared at her. His snowy owl gave a hoot. He scratched her neck feathers absently. “Um. Okay.”  
  
“Good,” she said with feeling. “Do you want to go down to the lake or something? The library’s full of Ravenclaw study groups around this time, and there’s this nice area under the shade of a boulder we could use for reading.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another emotional chapter! this is one of few chapters that isn't based on a chapter from canon. i realized that hermione needed another character development sequence between the troll incident and the next major plot event, since i'm interested in exploring more character stuff than jkr does in the first hp book. so here you go.


	11. A Taste of Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over halfway through now!

Harry had been tapping his quill against the table for several minutes now. Hermione might have found his behavior less aggravating if she were not working on a Potions essay that she was worried she would not be able to complete by the due date, which was tomorrow. Harry, on the other hand, was staring blankly out the window with his brow creased in frustration, and didn’t appear to be working on his Potions essay at all.  
  
“If you could please stop that,” snapped Hermione.  
  
“What? Er—sorry,” he said quickly, jolted out of his thoughts by her thunderous expression. “I was spacing out.”  
  
“I noticed,” she said with sniff. “I was hoping you could stop that tapping.”  
  
He looked down at his quill in surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed he was doing it. “Oh. Yeah. It’s just that I’ve been finding it difficult to concentrated on moonflower and pickled hornslugs or whatever ingredients this potion is supposed to need when I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with the third floor corridor.”  
  
She frowned. “You don’t still think Professor Snape is trying to steal something, do you?”  
  
Harry scowled. “I don’t understand why you don’t believe me. If only I knew what Fluffy was guarding, I could—”  
  
“I think I know that, at least a little. He’s guarding the package that Professor McGonagall took from vault 713 for Professor Dumbledore just before someone broke into Gringotts and tried to steal it,” said Hermione. Then her brain caught up with her ears. _“Fluffy?”_  
  
He looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s not my name, it’s what Hagrid calls him.”  
  
“The groundskeeper?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s really nice, he knows my parents, sometimes I go down for tea in his cabin,” said Harry. “What was that you said about a vault?”  
  
Hermione explained what she saw on the day Professor McGonagall took her to Diagon Alley. Harry nodded along thoughtfully. “That makes a lot of sense,” he said. “If there’s ever a place more secure than Gringotts, it’s Hogwarts.”  
  
“And I bet Fluffy’s not the only thing guarding it, either,” added Hermione.  
  
He fidgeted restlessly. “Alright, there’s no way I can concentrate on this right now. How about we go down to Hagrid’s? I could introduce you.”  
  
“Harry, this essay is due tomorrow.”  
  
“So? You can work on it later.” He stood up and began tossing his belongings into his bag.  
  
Hermione stood up unwillingly. “Fine, but if I get poor marks on this assignment…”  
  
“You’ll know who to blame, yeah, yeah,” said Harry. “Come on.”  
  
They walked down to the little hut by the edge of the forest. It was pleasant in the autumn air, with the trees shifting red and yellow and gold. Even the Whomping Willow was twisting peacefully. Harry knocked on the door to the cabin and was greeted by a loud flurry of barking.  
  
The door swung open, and a very large face with a very bushy beard appeared in the doorway. “Hullo Harry,” he said. “And you’ve brought a friend, I see.”  
  
“Hello, Mr. Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly.  
  
Hagrid settled them at a rough-hewn table with a pair of steaming mugs and a slice of rock cake each. She took a bite—her eyes began to water at the ringing pain in her teeth. Harry said, “Sorry I couldn’t visit sooner, I’ve been very busy with Quidditch practice and everything.”  
  
“Aw, it’s alrigh’, I don’—” Surprise dawned on Hagrid's features. “Wait a minute, tha’s Hermione Granger! Why, I never…”  
  
“Remember I told you we were friends?” said Harry, as Hermione found her hand being engulfed in Hagrid’s and shaken thoroughly.  
  
“Why, I never,” Hagrid repeated, beaming. “Professor McGonagall tells me yer doin’ ver’ well in yer classes. Top o’ yer year, she said.”  
  
She blushed. “She said that?”  
  
“O’ course she did.”  
  
They chatted and sipped their tea, and they didn't eat, but they pushed their rock cakes around their plates to show effort. Harry told Hagrid about his Quidditch team and Hagrid inquired how he was holding up in Slytherin.  
  
“I’m doing good. Much better than at the beginning of the year, at least. Everyone’s getting used to the idea that I belong here now. And I have Theodore and Millicent—they’re really nice when you get to know them.”  
  
Hermione, who had always thought Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode looked like an unpleasant lot, kept quiet and warmed her hands on her mug.  
  
“Anyways, my life’s not as interesting as Hermione’s. She nearly got killed by a mountain troll the other day,” said Harry.  
  
Hagrid nodded gravely. “Yeah, I heard abou’ tha’. It won’ happen again, if yer worried abou’ it, the teachers are makin’ sure o’ tha’.”  
  
“Well,” said Harry carefully, “it’s just that we were wondering… if it had anything to do with Fluffy?”  
  
Hagrid scowled. “I keep tellin’ yeh, tha’s none of yer business, and I don’ know how you found out abou’ tha’ anyways—”  
  
“It was a dare from Terence Higgs,” said Harry. “He’s on my Quidditch team.”  
  
Hermione was horrified. “Isn’t he a prefect?”  
  
“Yeah, so?”  
  
“That’s horrible! What if you had been hurt?”  
  
“Well, this castle has a mediwitch for a reason."  
  
Hagrid frowned. “I think Hermione has the righ’ idea. Fluffy is a good boy, but he’ll attack if he thinks yer tryin’ to steal the—to get through the trapdoor. The hospital wing is for mendin’ bruises from trippin’ in the halls, not Cerberus bites.”

“I can’t believe a _prefect_ told you to go into the forbidden third floor corridor,” fretted Hermione.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione was standing in the courtyard with Neville, Ron, and Parvati. She’d spotted them while coming out of the library. They had been freezing in a huddle, so she conjured some bluebell flames in a jar. The spell was the best defense against the cold air as autumn turned to winter, and she was rather proud of it—the spell was in the third-year textbook, but controlling fire came naturally to her.  
  
“Wow,” said Ron, awed. “You’re like a reverse Seamus.”  
  
“Yes, yes, Hermione’s good at everything, we knew that already,” said Parvati impatiently. “I want to hear about this three-headed dog she was talking about.”  
  
“It’s guarding a trapdoor in the forbidden corridor,” Hermione explained. “Harry thinks it’s Professor Snape who’s trying to steal it, but that’s rather ridiculous, don’t you think, and honestly—”  
  
“Here he comes,” said Ron, looking over her shoulder.  
  
“What?” she said, and turned just in time to see Snape limping toward them like a big black bat.  
  
He scanned the group with a scowl before his gaze landed on Hermione. “What’s that you’ve got there?”  
  
She was holding _Goblin Uprisings In Recent History: A New Analysis._ “Er, a library book, sir?”  
  
“Library books aren’t allowed outside the school,” he snapped. “I’ll take that. Three points from Gryffindor.”  
  
“But—professor—that’s not even a real rule—”  
  
He snatched it from her anyway. “And another point for your cheek.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
At dinner that day, Ron stumbled over to his the Gryffindor table, face ashen. “What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.  
  
“You look like kneazle vomit,” said Parvati.  
  
“Thanks,” said Ron sourly. “But guys, I’ve got to talk to you. Come in closer.”  
  
Hermione leaned in. Parvati looked intrigued, Neville looked alarmed, and Ron lowered his voice so only they could hear. “Hermione, you know that library book Snape confiscated the other day? I was passing by the staff room, so I went to get it back.”  
  
“Really? Oh, Ron, you shouldn’t have, what if he had gotten nasty,” she said.  
  
He shook his head impatiently. “It was stupid how he took it from you like that. I was thinking if there were other teachers there, maybe he would’ve given it over.”  
  
“But what h-happened?” asked Neville.  
  
“Well, the door was open a little when I got there, and you won’t believe what I saw when I looked in. Snape had his robes rolled up, and his leg was absolutely grisly. Bruised yellow and green, blood dripping through the bandages, just really nasty. Filch was helping him patch it up, and they were talking about the three-headed dog.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “How do you know they were talking about that particular dog?” she asked doubtfully. “For all you know, they could have been referring to something else entirely.”  
  
“He asked Filch how anyone could ‘keep track of all three heads at once’, Hermione, I don’t think there’s much room for misunderstanding there,” Ron said. “Face it. Potter’s right. Snape’s trying to get whatever Dumbledore is hiding.”  
  
It sounded convincing, but she didn’t want to admit that.  
  
“What else did you hear?” asked Parvati.  
  
“Nothing. I got out of there before he realized what I’d seen and, I don’t know, decided to poison me or something. Sorry about your book, though.”  
  
“It’s fine, I was finished reading it.” She grimaced. “Madam Pince will probably be upset with me, though.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
It was the first match of the season.  
  
“You’ll be rooting for me, won’t you?” said Harry, grinning. They were talking in the Entrance Hall, and Harry was dressed in his green Quidditch robes, about to join his team for breakfast.  
  
Hermione fiddled with her Gryffindor scarf. “Um…”  
  
His expression became sombre. “I _knew_ you didn’t really care about me.”  
  
“Oh, no, Harry, it’s just—I wish you luck, but—”  
  
He laughed. “Hermione, I’m messing with you. Let me guess, you wish me luck, but not _that_ much luck?”  
  
“Somewhere around there,” she said. “Please don’t fall of your broom and die. I hardly know how to stay on the things, I don’t understand how you do it when people are hitting giant lead balls toward your face.” Ron’s twin brothers were Beaters, and they had been (not so) jokingly telling Harry that they would be aiming specially for him.  
  
“It’s in my blood, Hermione, my dad was captain for Gryffindor in his day,” said Harry, patting her shoulder condescendingly. “But I’ve promised I won’t be too mean about it when I flatten his old team into the ground.”  
  
The entire school had got up for the match, and the entire Hall was filled with an excited chattering she had never seen so early in the morning. Ron had painted his face red and gold and was telling Neville enthusiastically about the new Cleansweep model, while Neville seemed rather lost. Parvati was wearing a cloak with a giant Gryffindor lion on it.  
  
Ron dashed out first to save them a seat in the “good spots,” which were up high in the stands. Parvati took one look at him waving from high above, blanched, and parted ways to go sit with Lavender.  
  
The stands erupted in cheering when the teams swooped down onto the field. The captains shook hands, Madam Hooch released the balls, and Lee Jordan shouted, “AAAND THEY’RE OFF!”  
  
Harry and the Gryffindor Seeker, Cormac McLaggen, shot up above the rest of the players and began circling the pitch while the rest of their teams struggled over the most normal-looking of the balls, which Lee called the Quaffle. “What are the Seekers doing?” Hermione asked, nearly shouting over the noise.  
  
“Looking for the Snitch, obviously,” said Ron.  
  
“That’s the small one, right?”  
  
He didn’t answer, because Lee cried “GRYFFINDOR SCORE!” and the entire Gryffindor stand started screaming.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Gryffindor’s Chasers were better, but Harry caught the Snitch before Cormac McLaggen even noticed he was in motion. When they met in the library the next day, Harry immediately launched into a play-by-play reenactment of the game, apparently forgetting that Hermione had seen the whole thing.  
  
“…and then we won,” Harry finished.  
  
“Yes, you did,” she said. “I’ve noticed.” Malfoy, Parkinson and the other Slytherins had been more insufferable than usual.  
  
“C’mon, Hermione, you hadn’t even seen Quidditch before yesterday, you can’t be that mad you didn’t win,” he said teasingly.  
  
“I may have only just learned what a Blidge—Bludger is, but I do have some house pride,” she said sourly.  
  
At dinner that night, she was treated to a similar conversation with Ron, who had been moaning over their loss for twenty-four hours nonstop. By then she was quite fed up with the topic and only wanted to eat her potatoes in peace.  
  
She chose instead to listen to Neville, who was telling her about the seeds of a magical plant species his gran had promised to buy him for Christmas. Herbology was definitely not her favorite class, but Neville was so enthusiastic that she couldn’t help but be interested.  
  
She took a sip of pumpkin juice. She frowned. “Tastes a bit odd, doesn’t it?”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Neville.  
  
“Hmm. It’s more bitter than usual. Almost… almond-like?” She took another sip, just to be sure.  
  
Her head felt light. The world felt like it was wobbling, and a terrible dizziness struck her. Her limbs were numb, as if filled with cold, icy water. She blinked muzzily and realized she was falling off the bench. Someone was saying something. Neville and Ron were staring at her, concerned, but their faces were hazy and indistinct.  
  
“Oh no,” she said, and then everything dissolved into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my main tumblr is [sybil-ramkin](http://sybil-ramkin.tumblr.com/), although you can also talk to me at [unintelligible-screaming](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/).


	12. Quandaries

She dreamed that her scar burned so badly that green light burst from it and incinerated her body, her mind, her soul.  
  
  
*  
  
  
She woke during nighttime, in a cot with white sheets in a long row of other cots with white sheets, none of which were inhabited. On the bedside table were dozens of bottles and vials, all labeled in spidery, unreadable handwriting, all filled with liquids of colors and consistencies that she didn’t recognize. There were shelves of medical supplies on the other side of the room.  
  
It was the hospital wing. She frowned, trying to remember why she was here, but that only made her head pound. Something had happened at dinner, that she knew, and she guessed it was connected to the weakness in her limbs—but before she could recall anything, exhaustion stole over her and she fell asleep.  
  
  
*  
  
  
This time when she woke up, it was to the sound of Neville and Ron muttering to each other.   
  
She shifted and cracked open an eye. Her friends’ faces swam into view. “Hi,” she croaked.  
  
“You’re awake!” Neville said.  
  
“All evidence points to yes,” she said, struggling to push herself up.  
  
Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Madam Pomfrey bustled over before he had a chance. “There you are Miss Granger, now lie back down, don’t exert yourself. You’re recovering from a poisoning, you don’t need to ruin your recovery by gallivanting about.”  
  
Hermione allowed herself to be pushed back into a lying position. “Food poisoning? Or…”   
  
She trailed off at her friends’ grim expressions.  
  
“No,” said Ron, eyes round, freckles stark against his pale skin. “Someone tried to kill you.”  
  
“Don’t scare her!” Madam Pomfrey admonished.  
  
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Ron said. “They wouldn’t let us see you for forever. They don’t know who it was, but they somehow snuck the poison through the kitchens.”  
  
Pomfrey clucked and tucked in the sheets. “Luckily for you, Miss Granger, we had Professor Snape on hand to synthesize an antidote. Otherwise you might not be here right now… as it is you’ve only missed a few days.”  
  
“A few days?” Hermione was alarmed. “That’s so many classes I haven’t gone to!”  
  
“Who c-cares about classes?” Neville burst out. “You could have d-died!”  
  
“Yes, but I didn’t, and now I’m behind on my homework.” The idea that she had almost died felt slightly unreal, as if it happened to someone else, or something she saw on the telly.  
  
Pomfrey sighed. “Alright, you two have five minutes, and then you’re leaving so that this girl can rest.”  
  
Ron and Neville nodded. Pomfrey disappeared into an office attached to the side of the hospital wing.  
  
“We thought you were done for,” said Neville. “Harry’s been freaking out—he thinks it was Snape.”  
  
“But I thought… Madam Pomfrey said Snape made the antidote,” she said, rubbing her scar blearily. It had been throbbing since she woke up. “That doesn’t fit with him trying to kill me.”  
  
“Yeah, of course he made the antidote, he couldn’t do anything else with Pomfrey and Dumbledore watching,” said Ron. “But who else would have a poison like that? Pomfrey said it had a kind of Dark magic in it she’d never seen before.”  
  
“If he was the only one who could make the antidote, he could have given me something incorrect and lied about it. If so, I would still be dead,” she pointed out. “The facts don’t add up.”  
  
“Come on, there’s no one else who would have access to that kind of poison,” said Ron. “And I bet only a teacher could’ve gotten that poison into your pumpkin juice.”  
  
“Oh, by the way, Hermione, we brought you your homework,” said Neville, and bent down to take a stack of books and parchment from his bag.  
  
Ron recoiled. “Don’t give that to her, she almost died, she deserves a break, not worrying about essays,” he protested.  
  
“I don’t think you understand some important things about Hermione,” said Neville mildly, as Hermione snatched at the pile of assignments with a grateful sigh.  
  
  
*  
  
  
She was confined to the hospital wing for several days, as she was too weak to walk farther than thirty feet. She was surprised at the number of visitors, including every Gryffindor in her year, the Weasley twins, Percy, and Professor McGonagall herself, who dropped in only to say that Dumbledore was working to find the culprit at that very moment and of course Hermione would have an extension on all her Transfiguration assignments.  
  
Parvati owl-ordered a stack of shiny new books from Flourish and Blotts as a get-well present. “They’re novels,” she explained. “I know you’re interested in learning more about wizarding culture, but you always look in the nonfiction section. Stories are part of our culture too.”  
  
“Thank you, that’s wonderful,” said Hermione, pulling the books on to her lap and inhaling the wonderful new parchment smell. She had never liked fiction all that much, but learning more about magical pop culture did sound fascinating.  
  
Parvati perched on the edge of the bed and said conspiratorially, “I heard Potter wanted to visit you too, but he’s had detention for the whole week. Apparently he hexed Malfoy in the hallway.”  
  
Hermione gasped. “What?”  
  
“Be glad you didn’t hear what Malfoy was saying about you,” Parvati advised. “He’s been _really_ nasty since you got sick. He kept trying to provoke Potter—eventually Potter hit him with a boil hex outside the Charms classroom. Flitwick saw. Malfoy tried to get him with _Petrificus totalus_ , but it went wide, and anyways that spell’s not very bad anyway.”  
  
“He shouldn’t have done that!” said Hermione, aghast. “Fighting’s against the rules—what if he had been expelled?”  
  
Parvati waved her hand. “No way. You should hear what some of the older students in Slytherin have got caught doing. I think you’d have to actually murder someone in order to be expelled, and even that could go either way, to be honest.”  
  
“It’s still awful,” she protested. “Malfoy’s not worth that.”  
  
“Malfoy’s not worth getting caught,” Parvati corrected. “Lavender heard Susan Bones tell Hannah Abbott that Daphne Greengrass was telling Lisa Turpin and some other Ravenclaws that Potter and Malfoy hex each other all the time, just not where teachers can see them.” She made a face. “That’s the kind of gossip I _should_ be hearing from Padma, but my sister apparently decided she doesn’t need to tell me things anymore.”  
  
Hermione shook her head, feeling vaguely horrified. Slytherin sounded like a frightening place.   
  
When Harry did appear by her bedside the next day, she immediately began interrogating him. “Parvati says you got detention for hexing Malfoy,” she said.  
  
“Worth it,” he said immediately.  
  
She fixed him with a baleful stare.  
  
“Come on, you know he deserved it.”  
  
“Yes, but you shouldn’t let him provoke you into a fight, you’ll only play into his hands,” she said. “I don’t know what _I’d_ do if I got detention for fighting—die of shame, probably.”  
  
“Well, not all of us are like you. And you don’t need to give me this lecture—I already got it from Mum. She sent me a Howler. At breakfast. In front of everyone.”  
  
“A Howler?”  
  
He grimaced. “It’s a letter that screams at you if you open it and explodes if you don’t. I don’t want to talk about it. Malfoy’s been reenacting it in the common room all week. I’ve been getting fun reactions from your resident Weasleys, though—Percy the Prefect has been scolding me for things like untied shoelaces or whatever, and your Ron keeps giving me these weird looks like he doesn’t know if he hates me or not, but that’s alright, ‘cause Fred and George keep congratulating me in the corridors.”  
  
She crossed her arms. “I still think you were terribly irresponsible, and if I weren’t feeling as weak as I am, I’d be… I’d be doing _something,_ you count on it.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure all this Potions homework I brought for you will cheer you up,” said Harry, handing her a bunch of scrolls. “Snape refused to give you an extension. He said that if you’re awake enough to talk to guests, you’re awake enough to turn in all your essays on time.”  
  
“I’m shocked,” she said drily. She began unrolling the assignments and reading through the instructions. “Harry, this potion isn’t in our textbook, how are we supposed to—?”  
  
“We had to check books out from the library,” he said. “I think Pince might have run out, though.”  
  
Hermione gasped in alarm. “Oh no—I’ll have to check with her—I need to go right now—”  
  
“You’re not going anywhere,” Harry said firmly. “You had a near-death experience, remember? I’ll find someone who can lend me an extra in exchange for a favor.”  
  
Harry’s get-well gift was a pile of Muggle sweets. (“I don’t really know what these taste like, but my mum says they’re sugar-free,” he explained.) They didn’t hop around or turn different colors or make her ears shoot steam like a kettle, but they were sweet and they tasted like home. She was struck by a wave of nostalgia she didn’t know she had in her. She found herself wanting to write a letter to her Aunt Leanne.  
  
She couldn’t mention the poisoning, of course, just as she never mentioned the mountain troll—she still remembered her aunt saying that if anything dangerous happened, anything at all, she would bring Hermione straight home. For Hermione, it wasn’t even a choice. This world, with its shifting staircases and enchanted ceilings and three-headed dogs, was something she was willing to risk her life to keep.  
  
She thanked Harry for his gift and watched him leave. Later, she looked out the window and saw him practicing on the pitch with his Quidditch team. He followed the Snitch to where it darted around a nearby turret, and Hermione waved as he went past. He waved back, and consequently didn’t see when the Snitch circled his ear and zoomed away.  
  
More and more visitors came, including people she’d never met, who wanted to say hi, deliver a card and stare intently at her scar. One of her last visitors, to her pleasant surprise, was Hagrid.  
  
“I was sorry to hear abou’ wha’ happened,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “Harry’s been real worried. All the bad stuff seems to happen to you… how do you feel?”  
  
“Good. Well, better than before,” she said. “I used to feel like a piece of meat someone gave Fluffy to maul.”  
  
Hagrid grew a little stern at the mention of the mystery under the trapdoor. “Now, don’ go lookin’ into tha’ mess, Hermione,” he warned. “What Fluffy’s guardin’ is between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel, an’—”  
  
“Nicolas Flamel? Who’s Nicolas Flamel?” she said.  
  
“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he muttered to himself. “I—I shouldn’t’ve—I’ll just go. Get better soon…”  
  
Hagrid retreated from the hospital wing, scolding himself under his breath. The revealed name rang in Hermione’s mind and echoed through her thoughts. It was a clue. She felt a sudden longing for the library… _Nicolas Flamel_ sounded so familiar, if only she knew where she’d read it…


	13. Two Worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we've come to the christmas chapter! i'm actually proud of this one, which features: families, settings, clashes between cultures, insight into the lives of side characters, and Important (Overdone) Symbolism™.
> 
> this chapter flows so much better than pretty much any chapter since the first one. i think it's because it's almost entirely my own writing rather than repurposed scenes from canon, since when i work while directly referencing the book, i find myself slipping into an approximation of jkr's style -- and that doesn't end well, since her style is so lively and different from my own that i can never quite achieve it, and instead the writing just becomes stilted and awkward. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

The Christmas holidays were approaching. They entered Charms one day to find that Flitwick had coaxed baby fairies into clutching onto the wreaths hung on the wall, illuminating the classroom with dainty, delicate lights. Decorated Christmas trees were in every corridor, and Peeves could be heard singing obnoxiously altered carols at the top of his lungs, generally while a teacher was attempting to lecture a class.  
  
Ron was the only one of Hermione’s friends who was staying behind during the break. “Don’t forget to use the library,” she reminded him. “We need to figure out who Nicolas Flamel is. I’ve picked out a few books I want to look through, but we’ll need all of us working together if we want answers.”  
  
“By ‘a few books’, she really means ‘about twenty-five’,” said Neville.  
  
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione.  
  
“Not bad. But kind of terrifying.”  
  
She was taking twenty-six books, in fact, and they were taking up more space in her luggage trunk than the rest of her belongings combined. After a long period of deliberation, she decided to leave behind _Hogwarts: A History_ and a few of the books she’d already read. Neville promised to make use of his grandmother’s extensive library, and Parvati agreed to ask her parents if they had heard of Flamel.  
  
Harry flatly refused to do the same. “I’ll do research, but I’m not asking Mum and Dad,” he said. “They’re Aurors. They’ll see through me in an instant, and if Mum thinks I’m doing anything dangerous she’ll ground me for a month.”  
  
“Tough luck, mate,” said Ron. Harry gave him a wary look. It was probably the nicest thing Ron had ever said to him.  
  
“You could ask your aunt, though,” Neville suggested. “She could be helpful.”  
  
Hermione snorted. “Very helpful, seeing as she’s an accountant.”  
  
“Right. I forgot.”  
  
“I think I have a second cousin who’s an accountant,” said Ron thoughtfully. “We don’t talk about him much, though…”  
  
As the day of departure edged ever closer, Hermione began to feel uneasy.  
  
It was a cold sensation in her gut, like sitting in a puddle of icy water. It crept up on her when she least expected it and left her feeling out of place. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to relinquish the Hogwarts library, but she knew that wasn’t the whole story. It was more that every time she went up to the Astronomy tower for her homework and looked out across the grounds, she realized that this place, its secrets, its magic, its people, had become a part of her, like an extra limb.  
  
Going home felt like safety, and rest, and her childhood. It also felt like chopping off half her life with an axe.  
  
The Hogwarts Express arrived on the other side of the lake in a burst of steam. The majority of the student body piled into the invisibly driven carriages, snowflakes clinging to their cloaks, and chattered as they clambered onto the train. The holiday spirit filled the air, and it cheered her up, but it could only do so much.  
  
She distracted herself by talking to her friends. Parvati went off to sit with Lavender, Harry went off to sit with his other friends, and Neville and Hermione got a compartment to themselves.  
  
Halfway through the journey, Trevor escaped Neville’s pocket and went hopping down the train car, which meant they began asking around if anyone had seen the toad. “Just like old times, huh?” said Neville, a bit embarrassed.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Hermione assured him. “Just… hold on to him a bit tighter next time, okay?”  
  
She should have expected it, but it was still an awful shock when they ran into Parkinson. She was sitting with Malfoy and his two goons. Hermione tried to push past her compartment without making eye contact, but Parkinson stuck out her foot and tripped her.  
  
Neville tried to catch her and failed. She had to pick herself up from the ground, face burning, as Malfoy’s ugly laugh resounded in her ears—Crabbe and Goyle chortled along and Parkinson gave a grating, high-pitched cackle that wobbled her bright pink hair ribbon. She could see why Parvati had taken to calling her the Pink Banshee.  
  
Neville was trembling. “Knock it off, M-Malfoy, or I—I’ll—”  
  
“Or you’ll what?” Malfoy sneered.  
  
Neville opened his mouth to say something back, but Hermione interrupted, “Don’t, Neville, he’s not worth it.”  
  
Seeing that he couldn’t provoke Neville into a fight, Malfoy switched tactics. “I see Weasley’s not with you—did his parents not want him around? I can see why. It’s probably crowded in their hovel, with all those children they breed like rabbits—”  
  
Hermione slammed the glass door shut in his face before she could get angry enough to do something stupid, grabbed Neville, and dragged him down the train.  
  
“Trevor!” Neville cried.  
  
She looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, hopping along at the end of the corridor was Trevor the toad. He croaked nonchalantly. Neville scooped him up in relief.  
  
  
*  
  
  
When they got off the train, Neville said a quick goodbye and went to meet an old woman with a rather horrifying stuffed vulture on top of her hat. Hermione pushed her trolley through the chaos of families reuniting and crossed through the barrier.  
  
Her aunt was waiting on a bench. Hermione’s face split into a smile. “Auntie!”  
  
She rushed forward to hug her and she hugged her back, and for a moment her heart burst with the happiness of _home_. “There you are,” Aunt Leanne murmured. She stroked her hair gently.  
  
Aunt Leanne’s car was old and secondhand and on the verge of breaking down, with ragged corduroy seats and an engine that occasionally made alarming clunking sounds when she hit the brakes. As Hermione sat back and felt the rumble of the road beneath her as she had done every day for years and years, she felt like she was greeting an old friend. When they came home, Hermione was struck by how different the two-story suburban cottage was from Hogwarts Castle. Two different homes, two different worlds.  
  
When she walked in, she was greeted by the smell of mint and something light and floral—probably her aunt’s perfume. She hadn’t noticed that before. She breathed in deeply and felt something inside her settle.  
  
“Is it good to be home?” Aunt Leanne asked.  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
Her aunt helped her get her trunk up the stairs. Her bedroom was exactly the same, and yet different in every way. She ran her hands over the spines of the books on the shelves, noting how printed paper felt under her fingers in comparison to the leather binding and old parchment she had become accustomed to. As she scanned the titles she felt an odd dislocation—these books were hers, and yet they were not. They belonged to the Muggle world, and the Muggle world was hers, and yet it was not.  
  
“Are you alright?” her aunt asked.  
  
Hermione let her hand drop. “Sorry, I’m just a bit tired,” she said.   
  
Her aunt studied her face. “I’ll give you a moment,” she said. She left.  
  
Hermione let her legs fold beneath her and dropped onto the bed. It bounced in a way ever so slightly different than her four-poster in her dorm. She reached up and undid the shutters, and sunlight poured in, pale and icy from the cloudy winter day, so far from the thick golden rays that drenched the Gryffindor common room.  
  
All these things created an aching loss within her ribcage, and yet—and yet—an alarm clock sat beside her bed, blinking at her in harsh green, and she marveled at the electricity that powered it. From her window she saw the garden, where plants stood proud and firm above the snow without a single Warming Charm to help them.   
  
“I brought you tea.”  
  
Aunt Leanne leaned against the doorway, holding out a mug. Hermione took it. It was her aunt’s special chamomile tea, where she took loose-leaf chamomile bought at the store and mixed in a bit of lavender and mint and a spoonful of honey.   
  
“Auntie,” said Hermione. “I told you about my friends, right?”  
  
Her aunt smiled. “Neville, Harry, Ron, Parvati. I remember.”  
  
“Well, it’s just… their families are magical, and mine isn’t, and that’s not a bad thing, I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t, but still, I know they’ll never really understand…” She waved her hand around the bedroom. “Any of this. And I do. And sometimes I like that, because I get to have both things, but sometimes I feel so separate from everything else, and… I don’t know what to think.”  
  
Her aunt was frowning now, the corners of her mouth crinkling downward, and Hermione began to wish she hadn’t said anything at all. Eventually Aunt Leanne said, “I think I better brew another pot of tea.”  
  
Aunt Leanne made that pot of tea, then gathered pillows from the couch, arranged them on Hermione’s bedroom floor, and gestured for her niece to sit. “It sounds like you need to talk about it,” said Aunt Leanne.  
  
Hermione rubbed her scar. “I don’t know. Everything is so tangled up.”  
  
“Yes, feelings are like that,” said her aunt. “The professor said there was… anger… toward kids like you, Muggle-borns. That’s the word, right?”  
  
“Yeah. But that’s not what’s happening to me. Everyone has been really nice, mostly.” She chose not to mention Malfoy and Parkinson.  
  
Aunt Leanne nodded. “What’s happening is that you’re feeling out of place because you have your feet in two different countries, so to speak. You know, there are a lot of kids who feel like that, magic or no. Have you tried talking to your friend Parvati?”  
  
Hermione frowned. That hadn’t occurred to her. “But I don’t even know if Parvati feels that way. She always seems so comfortable in everything she does.”  
  
“Well, maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But asking can’t hurt, can it?” Aunt Leanne reached over and brushed Hermione’s hair away from her face. “Look, I don’t know how it works in… that place, but I don’t think this is a problem you can wave that magic wand of yours and solve.”  
  
“I don’t feel ashamed of coming from here,” said Hermione urgently, because her aunt had a gleam of sadness in her gaze and she didn’t want her to think she hated her. “I like the Muggle world. It’s where I grew up. It feels like wizards just assume it’s lifeless and pathetic and dumb because it doesn’t have magic, but it has so much more than that. I tried telling Ron about television the other day and he thought I was joking, because he thought Muggles don’t have moving pictures. And sure, we don’t have _that_ kind of moving pictures, but we have something much better, _actually_ , and it gets so frustrating because no one at school appreciates that.”  
  
“I know,” said Aunt Leanne. “It’s good that you’re proud of where you came from. But it’s not the only thing you have to be proud of.” Her aunt bit her lip. “I’ve been thinking about that, recently. Since you’ve been gone off to boarding school. Magic is part of you, and you can be proud about that too, and _I’m_ proud of that.”  
  
Hermione and her aunt stayed in that room for a long while, talking and drinking tea and thinking, while the snow fell gently outside and the crisp, cool light turned slowly to the warmer gold of sunset.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Letters and gifts from her friends arrived on the morning of Christmas Eve. Aunt Leanne flinched every time an owl flew through the window.  
  
“Isn’t there some other way you could send these things?” she asked, eyeing Harry’s snowy owl with trepidation.   
  
“No,” she said shortly. She untied the hefty package from the owl’s leg while the owl pecked hopefully in her aunt’s direction. She set the package under the tree and ripped open the letter.  
  
 _Dear Hermione,_  
  
 _Happy Christmas! I hope you like my gift and it’s not something you’ve read already. Wait, I just gave away that it’s books. Well, it’s not like you couldn’t guess that already._  
  
 _My parents say hi, and so does Uncle Remus (who isn’t really my uncle, but he’s best friends with Dad, so he might as well be). I’ve been playing Quidditch with Dad basically every day—he gave me a practice Snitch so my skills don’t get rusty over the break._  
  
 _Mum heard about the poisoning and was pretty worried about you. She wanted me to tell you to be extra careful about what you eat and drink. I don’t know how that’s supposed to help since you were poisoned through the Hogwarts kitchens and it’s not like you can stop eating meals._  
  
 _See you soon,_  
 _Harry_  
  
 _P.S. I haven’t even *started* on my holiday homework. I’m telling you that specifically to horrify you, by the way._  
  
Hermione wrinkled up her nose. “My friends are terrible.”  
  
She went upstairs to grab the present she’d wrapped for Harry (a large box of Chocolate Frogs) and pulled out a pencil and a sheet of Muggle printer paper to write a response. After months of working with quills and parchment, the rigid wood of the pencil felt strange and foreign.  
  
 _Dear Harry,_  
  
 _Tell your mum Happy Christmas and thanks for the advice. I appreciate it._  
  
 _Christmas is nice and quiet over here since Aunt Leanne decided not to invite any extended family members over. I’m sure it’s because she’s worried they’ll think it’s weird that owls are delivering half my presents, but she won’t admit it. We decorated the tree together last week. There are all sorts of useful spells that could help with the ornaments and keeping the pine needles fresh and all that, but I can’t use them at all! I keep reaching for my wand and remembering that it’s in my trunk._  
  
 _Have you found anything on Nicolas Flamel? I’ve found nothing. I’ve looked in_ Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century _, and interestingly enough Professor McGonagall is in there (did you know there’s been only seven Animagi all century, and she’s one of them?) but Flamel isn’t. I’ve also read through_ Notable Magical Names of Our Time and Important Magical Discoveries, _and it was fascinating of course, but there was still nothing about Flamel. I swear I’ve heard the name before, but I simply can’t recall from where._  
  
 _Hope you enjoy the present. Love,_  
 _Hermione_  
  
While she had been sending off Hedwig, a tiny, scruffy little owl careened through the dining room window and flopped straight on top of her pancakes, drenching the package it was carrying in maple syrup and splattering her dressing gown.  
  
Aunt Leanne sighed. “Oh dear. Whose poor owl is that?”  
  
“I’m guessing Ron’s—I think he mentioned something about this,” said Hermione, attempting to extricate the exhausted owl, its package, and her breakfast. The owl cheeped miserably as she dried off its wings with her napkin.  
  
Ron’s letter was short but cheerful. Responding to him didn’t take long. She got the feeling that he had forgotten about researching Nicolas Flamel entirely, so she didn’t bother to pester him about it.  
  
Neville’s owl arrived next.  
  
 _Hi Hermione,_  
  
 _Happy Christmas! You’ll never believe it but my gran got me an entire greenhouse. It’s small, but I get to plant whatever I want in there, and she says she’ll even let me put in a few plants from the Mildly Dangerous Flora category, if I can prove I can handle them._  
  
 _The house elves are planning a really delicious Christmas Eve dinner, but my gran wants it to be some kind of function, so she’s inviting all these distant relatives over. I kind of want to hide in the study until it’s all over, but I think Gran would have the elves drag me out if I tried._  
  
 _I think you’ll like my present. There are two presents, actually, and one is the normal present, and the other one is the one I’m talking about right now, with the red wrapping. I REALLY think you’ll like it. You should probably open it as soon you get it. I know, it’s against Christmas tradition, but it’s worth it, I promise._  
  
 _—Neville_  
  
 _P.S. The owl is Gran’s. He’s very mean sometimes, but he likes bacon._  
  
Hermione glanced up to where the brown-feathered owl was sitting imperiously on the back of a dining chair. “Aunt Leanne, do you have any extra bacon?”  
  
“I have half an omelette,” she offered.  
  
“Let’s see if that works.”  
  
The owl gulped it up quickly enough, although it did level a stern glare in Hermione’s direction. She untied the packages tied to its foot and extracted the one wrapped in red. It was the right size and weight for a book. “Neville says I should open this as soon as I get it,” she said.  
  
Aunt Leanne raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure? Christmas tradition…”  
  
Hermione wavered, but finally decided her curiosity couldn’t wait. She tore apart the wrapping.   
  
It was an ancient-looking, leather-bound tome, with gold letters embossed on the spine that read _The Art and Science of Alchemy_. A page had been bookmarked with a scrap of paper… no, not a scrap of paper, a Chocolate Frog card.   
  
Dumbledore looked out from the miniature portrait. She flipped it over, curious, and saw that a passage had been underlined in red.   
  
_Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel._  
  
A strangled choking sound escaped her throat.  
  
She snatched the book and frantically scanned the bookmarked page. Neville had circled a passage:  
  
 _The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with the making of the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal._  
  
 _There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera-lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)._  
  
“Neville, I can’t believe it, you’re amazing! This is—this is the best Christmas present I’ve ever—” Hermione could barely speak, she was so beside herself. She clutched the book on alchemy to her chest and emitted a high-pitched squeal that she would immediately deny if ever questioned.  
  
“What is it?” her aunt asked, laughing.  
  
“Neville found a bit of information I’ve been trying to research for a while,” said Hermione.  
  
It all made sense. The tiny thing McGonagall took from vault seven hundred and thirteen must have been Flamel’s Stone. Flamel must have asked Dumbledore to keep it safe in Hogwarts for him because of their friendship. And if the Stone lent the user immortality, then why wouldn’t someone want to steal it?  
  
The only question left was Hermione’s poisoning. Who would want to kill her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder that comments keep me going here!


	14. Hatching Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, i bet you can guess what THIS chapter is about...
> 
> (sorry for not updating yesterday -- i got home late and couldn't bring myself to open up my computer. here you go.)

When she got on the train to return from Christmas break, the very first thing Hermione did was track down Neville and tackle him with a hug.  
  
He let out a hoarse yell and tripped backward. Hermione toppled over with him. Once they had managed to detangle themselves and actually sit on the benches like human beings, Neville said, “So you liked my present, huh?”  
  
“It was brilliant,” she said.  
  
Ron looked between them. “Wait, what?”  
  
“I found out who Flamel was,” Neville said, smiling shyly. “It was on a Chocolate Frog card, actually.”  
  
Once everything had been explained, Ron looked stunned. “It makes sense. No wonder he’s not in _Recent Developments in Wizardry,_ if he made the Stone centuries ago.”  
  
“And if it gives you wealth and immortality, no wonder Snape’s after it,” Neville added.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione’s first priority quickly became her classes, as the teachers seemed to be assigning more work to make up for the lack of work over the holiday break. However, all the rest of the House could talk about was the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match.   
  
Slytherin was rooting for Hufflepuff. Although Slytherin had won the first match of the season, there was a chance that if Gryffindor flattened Hufflepuff by enough points, they could overtake Slytherin and regain their shot at the Quidditch Cup. Consequently, the rivalry between the Houses had reached a fever-pitch, Potions with Snape kept getting worse and worse, and Parkinson always had something insulting to hiss at Hermione in the hallways.

Even Harry made a number of pointed comments along the lines of “so, _when_ Gryffindor loses their chance at the Cup…” Hermione told him that he was lucky Ron wasn’t there to hear him, or Harry would be going back to the Slytherin dungeons with a limp.  
  
One day the chatter of the common room was interrupted by a loud _thunk_. Everyone looked up as Neville attempted to pull himself upright after toppling through the portrait hole, legs glued together in the Leg-Locker Curse.  
  
The room roared in laughter, but Hermione didn’t find it particularly funny. Glowering, she leapt up and cast the counter-curse.  
  
Neville sighed. “Thanks, Hermione…”  
  
“Who did this?” she asked angrily, brushing a patch of dirt off his shoulder.   
  
“Malfoy. He was waiting outside the library. He said he was waiting for someone to practice on.”  
  
She shook her head. “Ugh, I hope Gryffindor beats Hufflepuff, just to show him. Look, you should go tell Professor McGonagall, she’d put a stop to this.”  
  
Neville shook his head glumly. “No way. I don’t want more people to know I’m a coward.”  
  
“You’re not a coward,” she said firmly. “You attacked that troll for me, remember? Malfoy’s the coward for sneaking around so he could find someone to ambush.”  
  
Ron nodded. “I bet he’s too scared for a proper fight.”  
  
“ _I’m_ too scared for a proper fight,” said Neville. “And don’t bother telling me I need to stand up to him. I’ve tried, I just… can’t.”  
  
“Fighting isn’t the only way to stand up to him,” she said. “Why won't you try reporting him? He’s so used to favoritism from Snape, he should see what it’s like to have Professor McGonagall on his tail.”  
  
But Neville still refused. He went off to bed with his head down.  
  
On the day of the match, Hermione got out to the field as soon as possible to save seats for her friends. The teams walked onto the field, the captains shook hands, and Madam Hooch released the balls. Cheering rose up from the stands as the Gryffindor Chasers took hold of the Quaffle and Lee Jordan began narrating their passes.   
  
“Ouch!” Ron cried.  
  
Hermione whirled around. Malfoy was behind him, with Crabbe and Goyle on each side, and he’d just given Ron a sharp poke to the head.  
  
“Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “I’ve just figured out why your brothers are on the team. It’s because Gryffindor chooses its players based on who they feel sorry for. There’s you lot, who have no money—odd that Longbottom isn’t up there too, he’s got no brains.”  
  
Neville went bright red. “You’re—you’re just saying that ‘cause scared of a proper fight, Malfoy!”   
  
Malfoy practically cackled. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit.   
  
Hermione scowled at them, and Ron said, “That’s right, Neville, you tell them.”  
  
While they were talking, the Hufflepuff Seeker had spotted something. The crowd screamed as he went into a steep dive. Cormac McLaggen, the Gryffindor Seeker, wheeled around with a confused look on his face, apparently unable to see his Hufflepuff rival zooming toward the Snitch fifty feet below. The Gryffindor stands howled.  
  
“Look, it seems McLaggen’s about as smart as you are, Longbottom!” jeered Malfoy.  
  
Hermione was so focused on the game she barely noticed the twin blurs of Ron and Neville launching themselves at Malfoy at the same time.  
  
The Hufflepuff Seeker was nothing but a streak of yellow, hurtling toward the grass at a stomach-droppingly fast rate. Lee Jordan was shouting into his megaphone, “He’s going after the Snitch, he’s seen the Snitch—MCLAGGEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING THEY’RE GOING TO WIN—”  
  
McLaggen finally caught on and directed his broom downward—just as his rival Seeker swerved upward with a golden glint in his hand. The Hufflepuff stand erupted in cheers.  
  
Hermione groaned and turned to Ron, only to see him and Malfoy tangled in a fistfight, rolling around under the seats. Neville looked up from his scuffle with Crabbe and Goyle to see what all the fuss was about, only to be punched in the nose so hard that a fountain of blood sprayed all over his robes.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Poor Neville was unwilling to visit the hospital wing (“What if Pomfrey asks if I’ve been fighting and I have to answer?”), but in the common room, George Weasley suggested he use an anti-nosebleed potion.   
  
“Fred and I keep a bottle down in the broom shed, in case a Bludger gets friendly with our face,” he explained.   
  
“Dunno how you’ll go get it, though,” said Fred. Neville was in no shape to go walking down to the Quidditch field now, not with his nose dripping blood like a leaky faucet.   
  
Ron took pity on him. “I’ll go get it for you,” he said.  
  
Neville tried to say something, but it was inaudible through the towel he had pressed to his face. He gave up and nodded miserably instead.  
  
The atmosphere in the common room was rather dismal. Chaser Angelina Johnson was just staring dully at the floor, refusing to speak to anyone. Lee Jordan half-heartedly congratulated Oliver Wood on a good game, but Wood seemed too depressed to notice.   
  
“Where did Cormac McLaggen go?” Hermione wondered aloud. She hadn’t seen him since the match ended.  
  
George shrugged. “Probably hiding from the rest of the team.”  
  
“That’s if he knows what’s good for him,” added Fred darkly.  
  
Neville sniffled and adjusted his towel.  
  
When Ron returned, he was holding an anti-nosebleed potion, but his hands were shaking and terror was plastered all over his face. “Here, Neville,” he said, thrusting the potion into his hands. “Look, we need to talk.”  
  
He led them away from his twin brother’s curious gazes. “Wub’s wong?” Neville asked, trying to hold the towel over his nose and administer the anti-nosebleed potion at the same time.   
  
“It’s about Snape,” said Ron.  
  
Neville made a choking sound. “Wub habbened?”  
  
“I went out to the broom shed and used _Alohomora_ to get in, and once I got Neville’s potion, I kind of thought… I dunno, I wanted to do a bit of flying,” Ron said, ears reddening. “So I kind of grabbed Fred’s broom. Don’t tell him, okay?”  
  
“Fine, yes, whatever, but what _happened?”_ Hermione pressed.  
  
“I did a couple rounds around the goalposts, and then I started going near the Forbidden Forest, and then I saw Snape,” he said. “He was talking to Quirrell. He wanted to know if Quirrell knew how to get past Fluffy, and he mentioned other protective spells too. He said…” Ron took a breath. “He said ‘you don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell’.”  
  
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. The evidence was irrefutable.   
  
“You’re sayib,” said Neville with difficulty, “thab the Stobe is sabe only so long as Quibbell stands ub to Snabe?”  
  
“It’ll be gone before Transfiguration class tomorrow,” said Hermione.  
  
  
*  
  
  
As much as Hermione wanted to learn more about Snape’s threats against Quirrell and whether this would mean further threats against her life, she had more important things on her mind. Namely, final exams. In only ten weeks.  
  
“The exams are ages away,” Ron objected.  
  
“ _Ten weeks_ , Ron! I don’t know why I haven’t started studying already, it must be this Philosopher’s Stone business—”  
  
“But you already know everything,” said Neville. “I don’t understand why you need to study at all.”  
  
“We need to pass these exams, Neville,” she said urgently. “Otherwise we won’t move on to second year. This is extremely important, I can’t believe none of you are taking it seriously.”  
  
The others quickly tired of Hermione’s painstakingly determined revision schedule and insistence on actually doing her work, but she didn’t let that stop her. She could worry about other concerns once she was sure she wasn’t about to fail.  
  
She spent more time in the library than she did in the common room. She had successfully convinced Ron, Harry, Neville, and Parvati to study all together for once, mostly so that they could compare History of Magic notes, since even she had difficulty tracking Binns’ droning narratives. She spent half an hour corralling them into using the colored highlighters she’d brought from home, a task that Ron made more difficult than it needed to be (“Is this some kind of Muggle device? Can I bring some home for my dad?”).  
  
“Oh, hey, Hagrid,” said Harry.  
  
Hermione blinked and looked up from her carefully highlighted notes. Hagrid shuffled out of a nearby stack, looking nervous. He was quite conspicuously hiding something behind his back. “Er, hullo there…”  
  
“What are you doing in the library?” asked Harry.  
  
“Nothin’,” said Hagrid at once. “I’ll, er, see you later then…”  
  
He shuffled off. The students looked at each other and shrugged.  
  
Eventually Ron and Parvati found excuses to abandon the study group, and only once they were gone did Harry leap up. “I’m going to see what Hagrid was looking at.”  
  
“And you couldn’t do that before?” asked Hermione.  
  
“Not with those two around, I couldn’t,” said Harry. “This sounds like something that could get Hagrid in trouble. I know you trust them, but I don’t.”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips but said nothing as he went looking through the aisle Hagrid had been sneaking around in. He was gone for a while, during which Hermione went back to highlighting dates she thought might come up on the exam (which was all of them).   
  
When he came back, his arms were full of books. “Look!” he said.   
  
Hermione and Neville peered at the titles. _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland, From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper’s Guide…_ “Oh no,” she said. “You don’t think he’s trying to raise one, is he?”  
  
“What else he could be reading these for?”  
  
She sighed. “Well, it could be worse. Anyone else might get hurt, but it’s Hagrid, he knows how to deal with dangerous reptiles. I’d be surprised if he couldn’t handle a dragon. Besides, it’s not as if it’s against the law.”  
  
Neville and Harry stared at her. “Yes it is,” said Neville. “It’s against the Warlock’s Convention of 1709. And the Statute of Secrecy.”  
  
“It—it is?” She felt like she’d been smacked in the face.  
  
“And they’re vicious,” added Harry. “I heard the Weasley twins talking about their brother Charlie—apparently he’s got burns up and down his arms from the dragons he works with in Romania. And anecdotes aside, it’s a dragon. I mean, a _dragon._ ”  
  
“I didn’t know that!” This was more and more alarming by the second. “You don’t think… we need to convince Hagrid not to do this!”  
  
Harry looked worried. “You know how he gets about animals. He’s obviously pretty bent on doing this.”  
  
Neville looked queasy. “There’s no way he c-can just k-keep it. It’ll get too big. People will find out. Malfoy hates Hagrid, he’s always saying mean things about him, and he’s always going on about how his father is a school governor. He’ll use it to try and get Hagrid fired.”  
  
“We need to make sure that doesn’t happen,” said Hermione firmly. “Come on. Let’s go talk to him, right now.”  
  
“Are you sure—” started Neville, but Harry was nodding vigorously.   
  
They tore across the grounds and arrived in front of Hagrid’s hut. All the curtains were closed, which only heightened Hermione’s suspicions. The nervous way Hagrid answered the door didn’t help.  
  
His cabin was a furnace. She immediately felt sweat drip down her forehead and rubbed it out of her scar.   
  
“Tea?” said Hagrid, pulling four chipped mugs out of a cupboard. “I’ve already got the kettle on.”  
  
“Never mind tea,” said Harry. “What’s _that?”_  
  
They all followed his pointed finger to the fireplace. The kettle was on… and below it was a round, dark egg. “Oh, Hagrid,” Hermione sighed. “That’s a dragon egg, isn’t it?”  
  
He jumped. One of the mugs flew out of his hand. Harry caught it and set it down on the table.  
  
“Where did you even get it?” Neville asked.  
  
“Off a bloke in a pub las’ night,” admitted Hagrid. “Didn’t see his face… Look, you kids can’t say anythin’, alrigh’? I’d be in real trouble if anyone knew I was tryin’ ter raise a dragon.”  
  
“You live in a _wooden house,_ ” said Hermione.  
  
“And it sounds suspicious how you got it, too,” Neville said. “What kind of person carries around a dragon egg?”  
  
“Well, you get all sorts in the Hog’s Head,” Hagrid said. “We had a few drinks, played a few games, he was out o’ cash…”  
  
Hermione frowned. “That sounds more like he was trying to push it off on someone else. Maybe the—the wizarding police were on his trail, and he was trying to get rid of it.”  
  
“What’s a police?” asked Hagrid. Harry and Neville looked similarly confused. She ignored them—her mind was whirring with thoughts. If this odd individual had some reason to fob off a dragon egg to a stranger he met in the pub, Hagrid could be in even more trouble than he already was.   
  
“Look, do you remember if he said anything to you?” she said. “Did he want to know anything about you?”  
  
“He wanted ter know what kind o’ magical creatures I’d taken care o’ before,” said Hagrid. “That’s all.”  
  
“So what did you tell him?”  
  
“I went through a list. Thestrals, hippogriffs, the giant squid o’ course, and I mentioned Fluffy too.”  
  
A hollow pit of dread opened in Hermione’s stomach. “Oh _no._ What did you tell him about Fluffy?”  
  
“Nothin’ much, jus’ that he has three heads and he’ll go righ’ to sleep if you sing to him,” said Hagrid.  
  
Harry was horrified. “You told a stranger you met in the Hog’s Head how to get past the monster that’s guarding the Philosopher’s Stone?”  
  
“Don’ be silly, there’s more guardin’ it than jus’ one dog,” Hagrid said. “A bunch of the professors set up obstacles. Professor Flitwick… Professor McGonagall… Professor Quirrell… Professor Snape…”  
  
“Snape is helping protect the Stone?” said Neville. “That can’t be good.”  
  
“Never mind Snape, think about _Quirrell_ ,” said Harry. “That must be why Snape’s been chasing after him in the Forbidden Forest.”  
  
Hermione turned to him. “You don’t think he’s trying to make Professor Quirrell tell him how to get past the obstacles to the Stone, do you?”  
  
“What else could it be?” Harry said.  
  
“Leave it alone, all o’ you,” Hagrid said, glaring sternly. “This business isn’t somethin’ you all should be gettin’ wrapped up in. Jus’ focus on your classes, an’—”  
  
“Someone tried to murder Hermione,” protested Neville. “It’s kind of hard to think about nothing but classes after that.”  
  
She was oddly touched.


	15. Malfoy's Detention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic will have eighteen chapters in total (all already written). if you want to read the sequel to this fic, which is currently in progress and will cover hp book 2, you should probably bookmark or subscribe to the series so that you don't miss it when i begin posting the next installment. thanks!

The three of them had no idea what to do about the dragon egg. They took to having furtive, rushed conversations about it every now and then when they thought no one was looking, but apparently it wasn’t enough. Ron and Parvati cornered them one day after Potions.  
  
“We know you’re hiding something,” said Ron in a low voice while Parvati scanned the corridor for eavesdroppers.   
  
“W-what do you mean?” said Neville, trying to bluff it.  
  
“You’re not nearly as good at being sneaky as you think you are,” Parvati said. “Be glad Malfoy’s too busy checking if Parkinson’s watching him flip his hair to see you three doing your suspicious little huddles before class.”  
  
“How do we know you won’t sell us out?” said Harry, glaring at Ron.  
  
Parvati put on a hurt expression. “I thought we were friends.”  
  
Hermione winced. She knew she was being manipulated, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty. She spilled the entire story.  
  
When she was finished, Ron breathed out slowly. “Merlin."  
  
Parvati crossed her arms. “Well, when Hagrid gets caught, tell him my mother knows an excellent lawyer.”  
  
Hermione rounded. “How can you say such awful things? This isn’t a laughing matter—I can’t _believe_ you—”  
  
“I can’t see this ending well, can you? I’m being practical about the situation,” she said. “Unless any of you know a spare dragon tamer Hagrid can foist it off to, he’s done for.”  
  
Ron gasped suddenly. “ _Charlie._ ”  
  
“What? I’m Parvati, remember?” she said irritably.  
  
“No, Charlie, my brother—he studies dragons in Romania! We can send Norbert to him!”  
  
The five of them looked around at each other. “Ron, that’s brilliant,” said Neville.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The next day, Harry cornered Hermione in the Entrance Hall to tell her that he had received a note from Hagrid saying only, _It’s hatching._ She relayed the message to her other friends at the Gryffindor table. She didn’t like the idea of sneaking down to Hagrid’s cabin between classes, especially not with Malfoy looking so intrigued at what they were doing, but Ron insisted. “How many times do you get to see a dragon hatch?” he argued.  
  
After Herbology, Ron, Neville and Hermione headed down to the grounds. Harry met them there. (Parvati still refused to come—her exact words were, “Sounds disgusting. I’ll sit this one out, thanks.”) The egg, which Hagrid proudly named Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback, was already hatching when they arrived.  
  
Watching the ugly, scaly thing crawl out from under its slimy eggshells was an unpleasant experience, but it was nothing compared to seeing Malfoy’s face peering through the window.  
  
“This just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it,” said Ron glumly. “Wonder what it’s like, having a nice life.”  
  
It took some convincing, but the looming threat of Malfoy going to Dumbledore—or worse, his father—was enough to make Hagrid agree to let Norbert go.   
  
The only problem was getting Norbert to Romania. Luckily, Charlie sent Ron a letter asking him to bring the baby dragon up to the Astronomy tower on a specific night. Unluckily, they had no idea how they were supposed to get him there.  
  
Hermione explained the situation to Harry in the library. “The only problem is, there’s no way we can do this without being seen,” she finished.  
  
Harry bit his lip. “I think I might have a solution for that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ll see.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
They were in the Gryffindor common room, huddling around the fireplace and waiting for Harry to arrive. He came nearly forty-five minutes after the agreed time. “What kept you?” Hermione whispered as the portrait hole swung open and closed again, apparently for no reason.  
  
“Took forever to shake off Malfoy,” came Harry’s disembodied voice. “I think he’s trying to follow me.”  
  
Ron’s gaze darted around suspiciously. “Where are you? Take that thing off so we can see you.”  
  
“That’s the exact opposite of the point of an Invisibility Cloak," said Harry. A hand appeared in midair and beckoned toward them. “Come on.”   
  
Ron bristled and opened his mouth to speak. Hermione intervened by bodily pushing him beneath the cloak while he was too startled to react. “Be quiet!” she hissed. “Neville, come on.”   
  
Once Neville was hidden as well, they headed toward the portrait hole. Sneaking down to the cabin and smuggling up the crate that held Norbert was more work than they’d bargained for. The Invisibility Cloak covered them all neatly, but Norbert kept shrieking and shaking the crate. Neville dropped it on his feet five times. Hermione wished she knew a silencing charm.  
  
By the time they were halfway to the top of the Astronomy tower, her legs felt like jelly and she never wanted to see another staircase again. She swiftly forgot the pain in her calf muscles when she saw two figures at the end of the corridor.   
  
She grabbed Harry’s arm and yanked him back. Neville gasped quietly, and they shrank into the shadows, despite already being invisible.  
  
A torch flared. It illuminated Professor McGonagall’s infuriated face. She was wearing a tartan dressing gown and her hair was pinned by a hairnet. Hermione was caught by surprise—it had never occurred to her that Professor McGonagall would do something as mundane as _sleep._  
  
She was gripping Malfoy by the ear. “Out of bed! In the corridors! At this time of night!” she hissed.   
  
Hermione’s mouth dropped open.  
  
Malfoy wriggled, trying to escape. “Professor—Harry Potter, he’s got a dragon—”  
  
“A _dragon?_ I’ve never heard such rubbish—that’s twenty points from Slytherin and a detention, Malfoy, and I’ll be seeing Professor Snape about you!”  
  
She marched off, dragging a struggling Malfoy all the way.  
  
“Urgh,” muttered Harry. “He’s always losing us points in the dumbest ways. At this rate we’ll never get the House Cup.”  
  
Hermione's eyes widened in delight. “Really? Slytherin is behind in house points? And Malfoy’s got detention? I could _sing!”_  
  
“Don’t,” Harry advised her sourly.  
  
She ignored him and gripped Neville’s shoulders. “Neville. _Neville._ Malfoy’s got detention. This is the best day of my _life.”_  
  
He laughed shyly. “He really deserved it, didn’t he?”  
  
“Yes he did—oh, I’ve always _wanted_ to see Professor McGonagall tell him off—”  
  
The rest of the haul up to the top of the tower didn’t seem so bad anymore. They only had to wait a few minutes before four broomsticks swished into sight, with four of Charlie Weasley’s friends atop them, beaming. Charlie fit Norbert’s crate into a special harness that would swing between them, ruffled Ron’s red hair, and flew off into the night.  
  
They got halfway down the tower before Harry froze. “You idiots,” he whispered. “You forgot the cloak.”  
  
“It’s your cloak, how exactly is that our fault?” demanded Ron, but Harry was already dashing up the stairs.   
  
They hovered in a shadowed alcove until he returned. He swept it over them. “You are so lucky you brought a Slytherin along, I don’t know where you lot would be if it weren’t for me,” he informed them.  
  
Hermione was trying to think of a snappy retort, but after the cloak saved them from a Filch encounter at the bottom of the stairs, she decided to keep her mouth shut.  
  
When she returned to the first year girls’ dorms, Parvati was up waiting with a candle by her bedside. “How did it go?” she whispered.  
  
“Good,” said Hermione. “Neville kept dropping it, and Harry’s a jerk sometimes, and I think Ron was on the verge of pushing him down the stairs, but…”   
  
“Well, as long as you’re not expelled and that dragon is on its way to Romania, I don’t really care,” said Parvati.  
  
  
*  
  
  
It was two nights after their success and Malfoy’s ignominious defeat.  
  
Green light flashed. A scream, a high, cold laugh, and then—the laugh shifted, deepened, echoed—  
  
For one long, searing moment, her scar burned like cold fire. She jolted upright and out of her dream, a shout dying on her lips, and in the bed next to her, Lavender shifted groggily.  
  
She stumbled down to the common room, heart beating two times too fast. It was deserted, but the crackling fire illuminated the haphazard red and gold tapestries, and she folded her knees in front of the grate, letting the warmth bathe her skin. It couldn’t cleanse her lingering sense of dread.  
  
She rubbed her eyes and stared into the tongues of flame. To distract herself, she pulled out her wand and tried the Fire-Freezing Charm she’d read about in a book about witch burnings and the Statute of Secrecy. It took her several tries, but soon the hearth was cold and chilly despite its lively light.  
  
It was supposed to be a fourth-year spell, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel proud of her strange affinity for controlling fire, not with that awful laugh ringing in her ears. She canceled the spell and allowed the fireplace to burn hot again.   
  
  
*  
  
  
“I say, Hermione, are you quite alright?”  
  
She stirred. The surface she was lying on was hard and flat, not at all like her bed, and her joints ached from her awkward pose. She felt the pattern of the carpet imprinted on her cheek and realized she must have fallen asleep in front of the fire.  
  
“Are you alright?” repeated Percy Weasley.   
  
She rubbed her forehead. “I’m fine. Just a little late-night Charms practice.”  
  
Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had an unsettling night. At breakfast, while she ate a blueberry muffin and tried to banish the dark bags beneath her eyes, Malfoy’s voice carried across the Great Hall.  
  
“I had detention,” he declared. His face was pale, well, paler than usual, and his hair was disheveled rather than immaculately combed. “In the Forbidden Forest.”  
  
Parkinson gasped and clutched his arm. “Oh, Draco, please tell me you’re alright…”  
  
To Hermione’s deep surprise, he looked too shell-shocked to appreciate the attention. “It was that oaf Hagrid. And there was… a… a _thing_ in a dark cloak, drinking unicorn blood.”  
  
She didn’t know what was so horrifying about his description—rather odd for a detention, but not out of place considering they lived in a haunted castle where they were taught how to turn pincushions into hedgehogs—but it got an immediate reaction. Crabbe knocked over his goblet and spilled pumpkin juice down his front. Goyle forgot about the forkful of sausage he was about to eat and let his mouth hang open. Daphne Greengrass clapped a hand to her mouth. Even Harry paused.  
  
“It was nearly midnight,” said Malfoy hoarsely. “There was a trail of unicorn blood, all silvery and glittering. The groundskeeper took me and his dog and started following it. It was dark… there was a sound, like slithering…”   
  
“Unicorn blood? Really?” Harry said doubtfully.   
  
Malfoy scowled. “Believe what you want, Potter, but your precious Hagrid can back me up. He was there when we met the centaurs, and when we saw— _it.”_  
  
“Centaurs?” said Daphne, eyes wide.  
  
“Never mind that, what was it?” pressed Parkinson.  
  
“There was a unicorn,” he said. “It was dead. And leaning over it was a hooded figure… it crawled over to the unicorn, dug into the wound with its fingernails, trying to open it up… and then it drank.”  
  
“What else did you see?”   
  
Malfoy just shook his head. “That was it. I got out of there before it could get me next.”  
  
Parkinson looked disappointed.  
  
Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione turned to Neville. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”  
  
Neville chewed on his lip. “I don’t know. But Hagrid’s talking to Dumbledore, just look.”  
  
At the High Table, the Headmaster was having a conversation with Hagrid in low tones. They both looked very serious, and Hagrid had the gravest expression she’d ever seen him wear.  
  
Neville shuddered. “If he’s really telling the truth, then that’s awful, even if it is Malfoy. Drinking unicorn blood… you probably don’t understand it, being from the Muggle world, but it’s one of the worst things you can do. Worse than casting an Unforgivable, even.”  
  
“But why would anyone do something like that?” asked Hermione. She’d never seen a unicorn, but their potions textbook spent paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing the creatures’ virtue and purity. “What would they have to gain?”  
  
“Immortality,” said Neville. “Not for long, though. They call it a half-life. No one agrees on what it’s like exactly, but they all saw it’s cursed, awful, worse than death… the only reason anyone’d do it was if they wanted to survive just long enough to find some other way of staying alive.”  
  
She dropped her spoon. “You don’t think—”  
  
“What?”  
  
Her face turned ashen. “What if it’s You-Know-Who?”  
  
Neville shrunk back in his chair. “Merlin,” he whispered.  
  
“And we thought Snape only wanted the Stone for money…” Her fingers began to tremble. She tried to pick up her spoon and eat the rest of her soup, but she couldn’t stop shaking. The soup just spilled out.  
  
“That must be why he poisoned you,” said Neville. “Because you defeated him when you were a baby.”  
  
She cast a glance to the High Table, and then the tension left her all at once. “Oh thank God, Dumbledore’s here, I nearly forgot,” she said, hushed. “He’s the only wizard You-Know-Who was ever afraid of, all the books say so. Snape won’t dare make a move while Dumbledore is at Hogwarts.”  
  
Neville looked doubtful. “Are you s-sure? He set the troll in the dungeons and threatened Quirrell and went after Fluffy all while Dumbledore was here, why would that stop him now?”  
  
He had a good point, but she didn’t want to think about it.   
  
“It will all be fine,” she said, more for herself than him. “Professor Dumbledore is here. Everything will be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting close to the endgame here, folks! i'm excited.
> 
> once again, a reminder that you might want to subscribe to or bookmark the series itself, if you'd like to read the next part of this fic.


	16. Tested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: hermione reacting to strange pains in magical scars very differently from harry, _FINAL EXAMS_ , and a chapter title with a predictable double meaning.

“Madam Pomfrey? Do you have a moment?”  
  
Pomfrey looked up from her desk and squinted at Hermione. “Yes, my dear, are you feeling ill?”  
  
“It’s my scar,” she explained. “It keeps hurting. And I have these recurring nightmares, green flashes of light and someone laughing, and that’s when it hurts the worst.”  
  
“Sit down,” Pomfrey directed. She did, and Pomfrey tapped her wand around Hermione’s temple and wrists. “All your vitals are perfectly normal. What kind of hurt is it? Dull, throbbing, sharp?”  
  
“Like fire, but only briefly.”  
  
Pomfrey pursed her lips. “How long has this been happening?”  
  
She thought back. “A while, maybe since before the school year began? But it’s only ever happened frequently in the past few weeks.” Since the night Malfoy met someone drinking unicorn blood in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
Pomfrey scolded her for not coming to the hospital wing sooner, but after an hour more of tests that turned up nothing, not even the rare diagnostic spells that had to be looked up in dusty tomes lining the shelves of her office, she was forced to allow Hermione to leave.  
  
Hermione hadn’t expected much out of the hospital visit, but she thought it was prudent to try anyway. She sighed and rubbed her lightning bolt, then headed to the library for more exam review. Her Charms final was tomorrow and she couldn’t afford not to study, not when she was distracted like this.  
  
She had no idea how she survived exam season. Ron and Harry and Neville and Parvati, _none_ of them seemed remotely as worried as she was about the impending threat of You-Know-Who’s return, and they didn’t seem particularly worried about exams, either. She spent her days in the library and her nights in the common room in front of the fireplace, going through her notes over and over.  
  
_What if I fail? What if I fail? What if I fail?_ The question beat itself against the walls of her skull over and over. What would people say if the Girl-Who-Lived failed her exams? The magic that thrummed in the walls of Hogwarts was a vital part of who she was, and she was desperate to prove that she had a right to it. She wanted to prove that she was more than a famous name.  
  
After her Charms exam, Flitwick took her aside and whispered jovially that she’d gotten a hundred and twelve percent. “A record, in all my years of teaching!” he exclaimed. She was so delighted she ran into a pillar on her way out of the classroom.  
  
History of Magic was shockingly easy considering the time and effort she’d put into memorizing obscure dates, although her friends disagreed. “I couldn’t remember anything. My brains feel like mush, Hermione, _mush_ ,” Ron insisted. “You could scoop ‘em up and serve ‘em with mashed potatoes.”  
  
“Maybe if you had used the flashcards I gave you…” she said meaningfully.  
  
Potions was nerve-wracking with Snape breathing down her neck, searching beadily for a single drop gone wrong, but she had already practiced and practiced and practiced her Forgetfulness Potion until her hands were steady and she did not forget a single thing.  
  
In Transfiguration, she turned a mouse into a porcelain snuff box with an elegant swish of her wand. It was patterned in delicate cherry blossoms, and Professor McGonagall gave her a rare smile.  
  
Once exams were officially over, Ron and Neville forcibly escorted her down to the lake, announcing that she was going to relax if it was the last thing they did. She sighed and went along with it, and now they were stretched out on the grassy hill, watching Fred, George, and Lee Jordan tickle the giant squid’s tentacles.  
  
“Hey,” said Harry.  
  
Ron leapt up, shredded grass scattering around him, and looked around wildly. “You! What are you doing here?”  
  
Harry scowled at Ron’s pointed finger. “What, is saying hullo to my friends illegal now?”  
  
“Ron, it’s fine, calm down,” Hermione said. “How were exams, Harry?”  
  
“Don’t talk to me about that,” he said flatly. “I’m trying to forget everything I’ve learned this year as soon as possible to save time over the summer. By the way, Hermione, have you made any progress on the Philosopher’s Stone?”  
  
She squinted at him. “Harry, I’ve been focusing on exams. I’m worried about it, sure, but as long as Professor Dumbledore’s here—”  
  
“He’s not.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Dumbledore’s not here,” he said. “He went to the Ministry this morning. I heard one of the prefects saying so.”  
  
She gasped. “What? But then the Stone’s unprotected!”  
  
“No it isn’t, there are plenty of enchantments on that thing,” he said. “And even if Quirrell’s given in by now, there’s no way Snape knows how to get past Fluffy. The only person who knows the trick to get him to sleep is Hagrid, and that man he met in the pub, who—” Harry stopped suddenly. “Oh no.”  
  
“What is it?” asked Hermione.  
  
Ron made a choking sound, animosity with Harry temporarily forgotten. “He didn’t see his face,” he said hoarsely. “Hagrid said the bloke who gave him the egg kept his cloak up and he didn’t see his face. It could’ve been Snape under there.”  
  
“But w-what are we going to do?” said Neville fearfully. “If D-Dumbledore’s gone, and Snape can get through the trapdoor, what’s to s-stop him from stealing the Stone right now?”  
  
The four of them looked at each other. She felt dizzy. There was a numb tingling in her fingers.  
  
“We need to contact Dumbledore,” said Harry grimly. “We need to get him to come back right away.”  
  
“Will he believe us?” Neville said.  
  
“I don’t know, but it’s the only chance we’ve got.”  
  
They hurried toward the Entrance Hall. As they were passing through the doorway, they nearly ran into Professor McGonagall. Neville stepped on the back of Hermione’s shoe and she steadied him with a hand.  
  
The professor looked at them, frowning. “What are you all going inside for on a day like this?”  
  
Hermione took a breath. “I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore.”  
  
“What? Whatever for?”  
  
“Someone’s trying to steal the Philospher’s Stone,” she said, taking the risk. “Please, you have to believe us—”  
  
Professor McGonagall looked as if someone had dropped a particularly heavy book on her head. “The Philosopher’s—? How on _earth_ did you find out about that? No, no, I don’t want to know—no one is about to steal the Stone, the Headmaster’s protections will see to that.”  
  
“Those protections have been compromised,” she said. “We know the Headmaster is away, but need to talk to him. Right now.”  
  
“Floo him,” suggested Ron.  
  
“Well, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, I cannot, as he’s attending to important business at the Ministry of Magic,” said Professor McGonagall firmly. “If you are truly worried, you may address him when he returns.”  
  
“That might be too late! If we could just—”  
  
Professor McGonagall was already striding away.  
  
The dizziness returned in full force. Ron caught her as she stumbled back and leaned her gently against a wall. “Oh no,” she breathed.  
  
Harry was pale. His green eyes glittered. “This is it, isn’t it? Snape’s going after it tonight. We have to get there before him.”  
  
Neville shook his head frantically. “What? N-no—I’m sure Dumbledore will be back soon—”  
  
“Will that be before or after the Dark Lord returns to power?” said Harry harshly. Neville flinched.  
  
Ron’s terror shifted to hard resolve. “He’s right, Neville,” he said. “The only people who can stop him is the four of us. We’re the only ones who know what’s happening.”  
  
Neville looked at Hermione.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She was trembling.  
  
“We’ll do it,” Harry said in a rush. “Hermione, you don’t have to, you’ve done enough, you just wait in Gryffindor tower and the rest of us can—”  
  
That snapped her out of it. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” she said quietly. “If you’re going, then I’m going as well. Let’s go, before Professor McGonagall comes back to the castle.”  
  
Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged looks. “Hermione,” said Neville tremulously. “Are you sure…?”  
  
She clenched her fists tight and dug her nails into her palms until it hurt, bright and sharp like a lick of flame. She brushed her curls out of her eyes and strode down the hall. “Are you coming or not?” she snarled.  
  
There was no time to gather the Invisibility Cloak from Harry’s dormitory. The four of them headed straight for the third floor corridor. They dashed up a flight of stairs, then around a corner, then around another flight of stairs, and another corridor, and—  
  
—smacked straight into Parvati.  
  
They stumbled apart. Parvati glanced at their faces. “What’s going on?” she asked immediately.  
  
“The Stone,” said Hermione quickly. “Listen, there’s no time to explain—you need to send an owl to Dumbledore.”  
  
“Wh—?”  
  
“ _Please,_ Parvati,” Hermione begged. “The professors won’t listen to us—we’re going to do what we can but it might not work—you need to tell him the Stone’s about to be stolen.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“ _Not now!”_  
  
Parvati swallowed. She nodded rapidly. She took off running down the hallway.  
  
Hermione and the others took a moment to steady themselves. Then they kept going. They turned the corner and found themselves in the forbidden third floor corridor.  
  
The door was ajar.  
  
She stared at the crack that opened into darkness. “He must have already gone down the trapdoor,” she whispered.  
  
Harry nodded. “Someone will need to sing. Or hum. Or something.”  
  
Hermione desperately searched her memory. She thought of a time forever ago, when she was young enough for Aunt Leanne to sing her to sleep with a lullaby. “I’ll do it,” she said.  
  
She nudged open the door, just enough for them all to slip inside, all of them shaking a little, but none of them shaking as much as her. Three low rumbles emanated from the trapdoor. A golden harp glittered at the three-headed dog’s feet, beautiful but silent.  
  
Hermione sang. In all honesty, she didn't sing _well._ She didn’t recall the words, so she just sang _la la la,_ and her voice wobbled and broke. But Fluffy stopped in his tracks, the largest of his drooling heads drooping, and after she repeated the melody four, five, six times, he drifted lumberingly off to sleep.  
  
She continued singing as Ron crept over and pulled open the trapdoor, then squinted into the blackness below. He looked up at the others and carefully gestured to himself, then to the trapdoor, then to Harry, then to Neville, then Hermione. The message was clear: he wanted to jump down first.  
  
She wanted to protest, to tell him no, that it was her job to go down first, but she was busy singing. And she wasn’t sure she had the courage for those kind of pronouncements in any case.  
  
Ron went first, fearful but unflinching, and then Harry, mouth set in a flat line… not brave, exactly, but steadfast and determined. They both vanished with a whoosh of air.  
  
Then it was Neville. He hesitated at the edge of the trapdoor.  
  
He looked back at Hermione, taking in her shaking hands and nervous, off-key singing. He said softly, “Let’s jump together, alright?”  
  
She was glad she was busy with Fluffy’s lullaby, because she knew that if she tried to say something, she’d break down in tears.  
  
She took Neville’s hand—Neville, her first friend, who had been there since the beginning—and they leapt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand here we go. finally, living up to the fic title. 
> 
> (reminder that you might want to consider bookmarking/subscribing/otherwise keeping track of the series itself so that you know when the sequel starts posting.)


	17. In The Face Of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit's getting REAL.
> 
> also, this is my favorite chapter title so far.

They were suspended in darkness for a long moment before they landed. When they did, Hermione nearly let out a cry of relief. The floor was made of something soft and cushiony.  
  
“Oh, wow,” said Neville. “This is oddly familiar…”  
  
“Good thing this was here, right?” Ron said from somewhere to her left.   
  
That’s when a creeping tendril latched around her hand and wrenched it from Neville’s grasp. She shrieked. “ _Lucky?_ It’s _trapping_ us!”  
  
She struggled, trying to free her hand, but whatever this thing was, it was already wrapping around her arm. A tendril snaked around her ankle and yanked her backward. Another slipped around her neck and tightened its hold. It was a plant of some kind, and Neville was right, she’d heard of this before—if only she could remember from _where_ —but it was dark, so awfully dark all around her, and all she could think of was her nightmares, that laugh and that flash of green light—  
  
“It’s Devil’s Snare!” shouted Neville. “Fire! We need fire!”  
  
That she could do.  
  
She gripped her wand and screamed, _“Incendio!”_  
  
The plant flinched from the flames, roiling bright and orange above them. The vines shrunk back, releasing them all at once, dropping them neatly to the floor below. She landed on her side, knocking the breath from her lungs.   
  
She scrambled to her feet as soon as she was able and went to help Neville, who looked dizzy but unharmed. “Thank you so much,” she said. Ron nodded fervently, and Harry clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
Far, far above them, a single dot of light was visible. Maybe a powerful wizard could levitate them back to the world above, but they were not powerful wizards. The only way out was forward.  
  
They followed a stone passageway through to a small, warmly lit chamber. Tiny, jewel-bright birds were flitting about. They rustled softly and clinked when they met in midair.  
  
“Are those keys?” asked Ron in amazement.   
  
She looked closer. He was right, they were keys: keys of every shape and size, from meticulously machined Muggle keys to old-fashioned keys made of rusted iron.   
  
“Look,” said Neville, pointing to the door on the opposite side. “There’s a padlock. And there’s broomsticks over there. Maybe you have to catch the key you need?”  
  
“Sounds about right,” said Harry. “Alright, it looks like I’ll be looking for something big and silver and old-fashioned, and probably real shiny just like that padlock…”  
  
“You? Why just you?” Ron asked.  
  
Harry gave him a look. “So how much practice do _you_ have catching a Snitch?”   
  
With that, he snatched up a broomstick and leapt on.  
  
As annoyingly arrogant as Harry could be about flying, Hermione had to admire his skill on a broom. He darted and swerved nearly as fast as the keys did, the silver and green trim of his robes glinting in the light. She saw the precise moment he spotted the target, the shiver of tension that seized his limbs, the intent look that captured his face, as if his entire being was an arrow pointed in a single direction. He swooped down and caught the silver key with the blue wings in a single motion, then drifted to the floor.   
  
He dismounted with a smirk. “Coming?”  
  
“Flash bastard,” Ron muttered. They followed him to the next room.  
  
As they left the room with the flock of keys, the chamber dimmed, and it was only when they stepped into the pitch black chamber beyond that the light switched on again.   
  
The harsh glow illuminated a rigid, stony face towering over them. Neville squeaked and jumped back.  
  
“It’s a chessboard,” said Ron in awe.  
  
She tore her gaze away from the statue before them and realized he was right. A vast stretch of black and white marble checks was spread before them, and in place in their starting positions were larger-than life marble statues, glittering in the light. “This must be Professor McGonagall’s,” said Hermione, impressed despite her fear. “She must have transfigured the chess pieces.”  
  
“Do you reckon we have to play our way across?” Ron said.  
  
“I’ve never played chess before,” said Harry, frowning.  
  
“It’s o-okay, Harry,” said Neville. He was stuttering, but he was doing his best to look confident. “Ron can tell us what to do. He’s a great strategist. He beats Hermione and me all the time, don’t you, Ron?”  
  
He gave Ron an encouraging smile. Ron was looking more nervous than ever. Hermione caught on and made sure to nod reassuringly. Ron squared his shoulders and gave a wince of a smile back.  
  
“Alright, Neville, you go take the place of the black king,” said Ron.   
  
Neville walked cautiously up to the chess piece, who craned his crowned head down to look at him. Stony limbs moving silently, the king stepped off the square, removed his crown, and placed it on Neville’s head. The crown was too big for his head and began to slip—Neville pushed it back up just in time, looking embarrassed.  
  
Ron said, “Potter, you go be the bishop. Hermione, go be the castle next to him.”  
  
As he spoke, the bishop and the castle climbed off their squares, nodded solemnly to them, and retreated to the shadowed corners of the room. Harry and Hermione took their places.   
  
“What about you, Ron?” asked Neville.  
  
“I’ll be a knight,” he said.  
  
He was pathetically tiny compared to the black knight that gracefully made way for him, but with the stubborn tilt of his chin, they didn’t seem so different after all.  
  
In response, a white pawn edged forward two squares.  
  
“White went first, now it’s our move,” Ron said. “Pawn—yeah, you—move forward to… yeah, right there…” He began to direct the black pieces. He ordered his friends to move only rarely, and Neville, as a king, moved the least. Thankfully he used language they could understand when ordering them around rather than incomprehensible letter-number lingo.  
  
Three moves later, the white queen drew her gleaming sword and smashed the other black knight to the ground. The knight twitched, then lay still with an awful shudder. The queen seized his collar and dragged him off the board, where the knight didn’t move again.  
  
Hermione couldn’t breathe. _Of course it’s violent and dangerous, it’s wizard’s chess,_ she reminded herself, but it didn’t help to calm her. Which piece would be next? Would it be that pawn, lingering dangerously close to the white queen? Or Harry? Or herself?  
  
“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, swallowing. “Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go on.”  
  
Her limbs felt like stone, but she walked her route with precision. When she reached the bishop’s square, it extended its blank white face toward her in a half-bow, then walked calmly off the board.  
  
Ron darted around the board, taking almost as many pieces as had been taken on their side. She doubted Professor McGonagall would create a magic chessboard that anyone with less skill than a true chess master could defeat, and in an absentminded, terrified way, she wondered if Ron’s skills were even greater than she had realized. Maybe he should consider taking his skills to a competitive level.  
  
There were a few times when a white chess piece got a little too close to Harry or Hermione or (heaven forbid) Neville, whose defeat would mean they had lost, but Ron saved them in the nick of time.   
  
“We’re nearly there, nearly there,” Ron muttered, screwing up his face in concentration. “Let me think…”  
  
The white queen turned her blank face towards him. Flecks of mica glittered on her carapace.  
  
“Yes,” Ron said. “It’s the only way. I’ve got to be taken.”  
  
Hermione’s heart seized up all at once. “ _NO!_ Ron, you can’t—” Her voice choked. She was too upset to speak.  
  
“Ron, no!” cried Neville.  
  
“I have to,” said Ron. “If I sacrifice myself, you can go on to find Snape.”  
  
Harry drew in a shuddering breath. “He’s right, Hermione,” he said quietly. “I’m not the best at chess and even I can see it. The white queen takes him, and then I checkmate their king.”  
  
She bit her lip so hard she bled. A droplet rolled down her skin and splashed to the floor below. “Ron—”  
  
“Do you want to save the Stone or not?”  
  
Neville was shaking his head frantically. “No, Ron, you can’t—”  
  
“Just go!” Ron shouted. “Don’t hang around afterward, alright? You need to move on as soon as you can.”  
  
And before they could stop him, he stepped forward.  
  
The white queen’s sword flashed down in a gleam of white, as harsh and bright as the scar on Hermione’s forehead. She couldn’t help but scream, loud and desperate and useless. The hilt struck Ron in the head. He crumpled. The queen grasped his shock of red hair and dragged him to the side.  
  
Harry moved three spaces to the left.  
  
The white king threw down his crown at Harry’s feet. The crash echoed through the chamber, and then there was silence.   
  
“Have we won?” asked Hermione.  
  
“I think we have,” said Harry.   
  
Neville walked over and picked up the crown, hands shaking. “Ron will want it when this is over,” he explained. He removed his own crown and quickly darted over to where Ron lay crumpled on the ground. “I know he said we shouldn’t stay long, but—” Neville placed the two crowns on Ron’s chest, then ran back over to Harry and Hermione.   
  
“Let’s go,” said Harry.   
  
They advanced into the passageway.  
  
“What do you reckon the next one will be?” asked Neville softly. “Professor Sprout must have done the first one, the Devil’s Snare…”  
  
Hermione ticked them off in her head. “And then Flitwick charmed the keys, and Professor McGonagall transfigured the chess pieces… so all that’s left is Quirrell’s, Snape’s, and whatever Dumbledore did…”  
  
The next room contained a knocked-out troll. They plugged their noses against the stench and continued to the next.  
  
It was a small, dimly lit chamber, with a rough-hewn table covered in bottles of all shapes and sizes. It was only when all of them had crossed the threshold that flames sprang into life at either end of the room.  
  
Neville gasped. “We’re trapped!”  
  
Hermione was on the verge of panic as well, but she refused to let it overpower her like it had with the Devil’s Snare—or like it had on Halloween with the troll, or every other time someone was relying on her. The Sorting Hat gave her a choice, and she chose Gryffindor. She would not be a coward again.  
  
She looked at the flames. “One purple, one black, that means they’re magical and they have different properties,” she said. “It must have something to do with those bottles. They’re potions, aren’t they? This must be Snape’s obstacle.”  
  
“There’s a bit of parchment over here,” called Harry. “It’s a riddle. Look.”  
  
They came over and examined the parchment. It was the same handwriting they saw every week on the chalkboard in the Potions classroom.  
  
“How are we ever supposed to get through this?” said Neville. “I don’t think there are any spells that can solve riddles.”  
  
Hermione swallowed. Her mind began to tick and whir like the insides of a complex pocket watch, a thousand moving parts, all gold and gleaming. “That’s exactly it, don’t you see?” she said. “This can’t be solved by a spell. So many so-called ‘great’ wizards are so used to fixing their problems with magic that they never use their brains! I hate to say it, but this is brilliant.”  
  
This wasn’t an ogre that needed tackling, or a complex defense spell that relied on instinct and power and all those things she didn’t have no matter how hard she studied. This was something she knew how to do.  
  
She picked up the parchment and began to read aloud, thinking through each line. “ _Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind…”_  
  
Harry snorted. “Yeah, of course it does, one end’s the way out and the other end’s got Snape in it. Real helpful, that.”  
  
She read, “ _Two of us will help you, whichever you will find. One among us seven will let you move ahead, another will transport the drinker back instead…_ so that tells us what to look for… _Two among our number hold only nettle wine, three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line…_ ”  
  
“You can practically hear his greasy voice, can’t you?” said Harry, shaking his head. “The inflections and everything.”  
  
“I’m trying to concentrate,” she snapped. “ _However slyly poison tries to hide, you will always find some on nettle wine’s left side… Different are those that stand at either end, but if you would move forward, neither are your friend…_ that rules those out, then…”  
  
She walked over to the bottles and looked closely at their shapes. “ _Neither dwarf nor giant hold death on their insides…_ that means those two are either the helpful potions or the nettle wine. And it says _the second left and the second on the right are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight,_ and there’s only one potion that moves you forward and one that moves you back, so that means those two are either poison or wine as well, and they can’t be either of the helpful potions.”  
  
That left the three bottles in the center as possible candidates for the potion she needed.  
  
“Alright, if there’s always going to be poison to the left of the wine, that means the two nettle wines can’t be next to each other,” she decided. “And the one on the left end can’t be wine, because there wouldn’t be any poison next to it. Which means that one could be the poison… but no, it can’t be, it’s the largest bottle. And the tiny one can’t be poison either. Which means…”   
  
She plucked up the smallest bottle and turned to Harry and Neville. “This is it. This is the potion that will get us into the next chamber.”  
  
Neville squinted at it. “That’s only enough for one person to sip it. That means only one person can go on.”  
  
He was right. There was only one dose.  
  
But for who? The largest bottle contained the means to go back, so everyone else could retreat, but only one person would be left to confront Snape.  
  
Harry took in a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll do it. I know more curses and hexes than the rest of you, I’ve been defending myself from Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle all year, and I’ve got the best reflexes. I’ll try and slow him down, and then…” He trailed off.  
  
Letting Harry do it would be the most logical thing to do. Hermione knew plenty of spells, but she froze under stress, and she couldn’t risk that happening again. Even now she was on the verge of crying, and she only just kept her tears in check.  
  
She stared into the black fire that blocked their way forward. Snape would be there, and so might be You-Know-Who, the man who struck down her parents. The man who would have killed her too, if it weren’t for a blood protection that no books or cleverness could explain.   
  
She thought of Ron, playing the knight, walking unflinchingly into danger. She thought of her parents, holding off You-Know-Who without a drop of magic in their veins.  
  
Some things were more important than books or cleverness.  
  
“No,” she said.  
  
“Hermione,” Neville started, but she would not be denied.  
  
“You two go back. Take the brooms from the Flitwick’s key room. You can fly back up to he trapdoor, and Harry, you can take Ron up on your broom. Hopefully Parvati will have owled Dumbledore, but if not, you have to try and convince Professor McGonagall again.”  
  
“Hermione, _no_ ,” Neville said louder, reaching out for her, but she was already swallowing down the potion.   
  
When she ran through the fire, it did not dare to touch her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chapter left, and that's book 1 wrapped up! man, writing hermione's thought process throughout this was super fun.


	18. The Girl Who Lived Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are.

The flames parted for her. She stepped out into a vast cavern. In the center of the chamber, a cloaked figure stood before a tall, silvery mirror.  
  
It wasn’t Snape.  
  
It was Quirrell.  
  
“You,” she gasped.  
  
He turned and greeted her with a calm, pleasant smile. “Me,” he said. “I wondered if I might meet you here.”  
  
“So it wasn’t Snape after all,” she said. “You were the one who poisoned me. That time in the Forbidden Forest, when Ron saw you and him talking—were you scared Professor Snape would find out what you were planning?”  
  
Quirrell sneered. “Clever girl. But perhaps not so clever, if you were deluded all this time.”  
  
She took a wobbly step forward. “Why was… why did Snape go after Fluffy on Halloween, if he was trying to stop you?”  
  
“Because he saw through my ruse with the troll and intercepted me when I attempted to steal the Stone, you foolish creature,” he snapped. “Damn thing didn’t even maul him properly. If it weren’t for Hagrid’s loose tongue I might not have gotten here at all.”  
  
“I _knew_ it couldn’t be him—he made me an antidote when you poisoned me—”  
  
“Shame he put in all that effort, since you’ll be dead before the night is up,” said Quirrell. He snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang from nowhere. Before she could react, they slithered around her as fast as lightning and bound her arms to her sides, digging into her skin.   
  
“You’re too nosy to live, Granger,” said Quirrell. “Always pushing and pushing in class, always sneaking around with Weasley and Patil and Longbottom and that traitorous excuse for a Slytherin. The fact that you’ve survived this long amazes me.”  
  
He turned his back on her, as if she was beneath his notice, and returned to examining the tall, elegant mirror.  
  
She gritted her teeth as pain bloomed around her wrists and neck. He’d done it silently and wandlessly, but she recognized it as the _Incarcerous_ spell. Oh, if only she knew the countercurse…  
  
Quirrell ran his hands over the mirror’s silver frame. “Now, I need to find the secret to this,” he muttered. “It shows the user’s greatest desire, that I know… is the Stone within it? Should I shatter it? Trust that old fool Dumbledore to come up with something as impossible as this…”  
  
“That ‘old fool’ is the greatest wizard who ever lived,” Hermione said harshly. “And when he gets back from the Ministry, he’ll make sure you never see the daylight again.”  
  
Quirrell gave an ugly laugh. “The greatest wizard? He may have power, but he pales in comparison to the might of my lord and master.”  
  
A chill fell over her. “You mean You-Know-Who.”  
  
“Naturally.” And without turning, he began to unravel his turban. The folds of cloth slithered to the floor, and behind them was… was…  
  
Her scar burned, and she fell to the floor.  
  
She didn’t know how long it took her to recover. Time and space twisted as the pain tore through her like she was nothing but a scrap of wet parchment. The cold laugh that haunted her dreams was ringing through the air, close, too close. Eventually she became aware of the chilly stone pressed against her face, the pain in her scar now only a dull throb.   
  
Dizzy and weak, she looked up. Affixed to the back of Quirrell’s head was another face, a terrible one, gray and pallid with red eyes. It was like a snake—but no, it was nothing so natural as that. It was hardly a living creature at all.   
  
It smiled.  
  
“Hermione Granger,” it spoke. “Mudblood. Pathetic little child. My greatest enemy. Have you figured it out? Has your childish spark of intelligence given you enough insight to see that Dumbledore designed these protections for you? To test you and your little friends? Get up.”  
  
She couldn’t breathe. Her limbs might as well have been carved from stone.   
  
The face growled. Quirrell’s arm jerked upward. Against her will, her body gathered itself up and walked forward until she stood facing the mirror.   
  
She searched desperately for ideas. Quirrell said the mirror showed the user’s greatest desire—and there was an inscription around the silver-wrought frame, in what looked like gibberish—except, no, it wasn’t, because even while panicked her mind resettled the letters and allowed her to read _I show not your face but your heart’s desire—_  
  
“Tell me,” hissed the face. “What do you see?”  
  
She saw…  
  
Her mother and father stood beside her, hands on her shoulders. She had her father’s eyes, dark and brown, too dark for the other kids on the playground to say that they were pretty. She had her mother’s smile, wide and happy, teeth too big for the other kids not to tease her. Her parents looked proud. She thought they were beautiful.  
  
It lasted for only a moment before shattering into a thousand fractal shards, each a glimpse into a different universe. The visions solidified again into a single image—Ron, awake and unhurt, grinning at her with every one of his freckles.  
  
It shifted again. Now she saw herself beating Quirrell back in a duel, strong and fearless, casting powerful defensive spells with ease. It vanished, and then she saw Professor McGonagall congratulating her after her exams… then she saw an older version of herself, accepting an award from an important-looking official…  
  
The visions vanished into a storm of fractal universes expanding and collapsing, and then it snapped into nothing more than her own reflection.  
  
She frowned.  
  
Her reflection didn’t.   
  
Her mirrored self smiled with all her teeth. She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a small reddish-gold rock that gleamed in the low light. She turned it over in her fingers, and then she put it back.  
  
Something small and hard fell into Hermione’s pocket.  
  
“Well?” demanded the face on the back of Quirrell’s head. “What is it that the mirror reveals to you?”  
  
She thought about lying, but she knew that _thing_ would see through any lie she tried to tell. She could run, but Quirrell would never let her get out alive. She was trapped. She wished desperately for someone to rescue her, but her friends couldn’t come through the flames. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall weren’t coming. There was no one to save her.  
  
“I’ll never let you have it,” she said.  
  
You-Know-Who’s face twisted with fury. “GIVE IT TO ME!”  
  
She stumbled backward. “Never,” she said, voice shaking with fear, and then she whirled around and threw the Stone as hard as she could through the flames.  
  
Quirrell and You-Know-Who screamed together, and Hermione fell to her knees as the terrible, eldritch sound tore through her eardrums like a spear. Quirrell rushed to the fire barring the doorway, but he could not cross it.  
  
An odd relief washed over her. Yes, she was probably about to die, but the Stone was safe. You-Know-Who would not return to full power. He would never be anything more than a half-human face borrowing someone else’s body.  
  
“KILL HER!” shouted You-Know-Who, and Quirrell lunged.   
  
His hands locked around her neck, and her breathing stopped and her scar exploded with pain—but then he cried out and let go. “Master, I cannot, it burns—”  
  
“I said _KILL HER!_ ” the face bellowed, and Hermione looked at Quirrell’s blistering hands and realized something very important.  
  
When Quirrell reached for her again, she raised her hands and clasped them onto his face.  
  
The pain was greater than any she had ever experienced. But she didn’t let go. She thought of her aunt and her parents and Ron and Harry and Neville and even Parvati, and everyone else in the wonderful, magical place she had come to live, and she did not let go.  
  
  
*  
  
  
She dreamed only of home, and the gentle scent of chamomile tea.  
  
  
*  
  
  
“Hermione? Are you awake?”   
  
There was a soft pillow below her head. Morning light glowed against her eyelids. She dared to open them a crack and saw Parvati leaning over her. “Hello,” she mumbled.  
  
Parvati relaxed. “Oh, wow. Thank Merlin. You’ve been out cold for days.”  
  
 _At least I didn’t miss any classes,_ Hermione thought sleepily. _Exams are over. And we… and then we…_ Suddenly she remembered what had happened to cause her to pass out, and sat bolt upright. “Parvati!” she gasped. “Parvati, you have to contact Dumbledore, you have to warn him—”  
  
Parvati grabbed her shoulders. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. If you shout like that, Madam Pomfrey will come over and be like, ‘Detention! Illegal bothering of my patient!’”  
  
“But—”  
  
“If you’re talking about the Stone, then it’s okay. All that’s been worked out forever ago. I went to the owlery and, uh, kind of sent Dumbledore a Howler? I’ve been practicing the enchantment for that since forever but I never thought I’d get to use it. After I sent it, it was only about an hour before Dumbledore showed up.”  
  
Hermione blinked. “A Howler?” she repeated faintly.  
  
“It’s a kind of letter that screams at you,” explained Parvati.  
  
“I know what it is. You sent the Headmaster a _Howler?”_  
  
Parvati crossed her arms. “What else would have worked? It saved you and that dumb rock, didn’t it?”  
  
 _“Dumb rock?”_  
  
“It almost got you killed, that sounds pretty dumb to me,” said Parvati. “Besides, it’s not like it’ll be much use any longer. Lavender says that Ernie Macmillan says that Lisa Turpin says that Flitwick says that Dumbledore says they’re going to destroy it.” She shrugged. “Of course, that means ol’ Nicolas and Perenelle are going to go without it, but…”  
  
“So what, they’ll just die?”  
  
“Apparently.” Parvati frowned. “And he said something confusing about death and adventures. No one really understood what that was about.”  
  
Hermione closed her eyes, rubbed at her scar (which wasn’t hurting for the first time in a long while), and tried to process. “How long have I been asleep?”  
  
“About a week,” said Parvati. “You—”  
  
There was a sharp cry from the hospital wing’s office. Madam Pomfrey appeared by Hermione’s bedside so fast she could have sworn she Apparated. “You’re awake!” she cried. “Now go back to lying down right now, missy, you are suffering from serious magical exhaustion—and what are you doing here? Visiting hours are over!” She made shooing gestures at Parvati.  
  
Parvati looked startled. “Um—”  
  
“Out! Out!”  
  
Parvati shot Hermione an apologetic look and hurried away.  
  
“Gallivanting about, fighting dangerous Dark wizards, oh my, oh my,” muttered Pomfrey, rearranging Hermione’s pillows and tucking in the sheets. “You need bed rest, and lots of it. And to think the Headmaster wanted to be notified the moment you awoke! Drink this, you silly girl…”  
  
Pomfrey thrust a potions vial against her lips. Hermione opened her mouth to object at being called a silly girl, but the moment her lips parted, Pomfrey poured it in, and she swallowed reflexively.   
  
She was asleep before her head touched the pillow.  
  
  
*  
  
  
When she woke, the first thing she saw was the glint of Dumbledore’s spectacles. “I see you’ve returned to the land of the waking,” he said.  
  
“Hello, professor,” she said with a yawn. She sat up.  
  
“How are you?”  
  
“I’m fine, sir.” She was well-rested, her scar didn’t hurt, and she had no injuries.  
  
“Now, Hermione, I understand that you are a very curious student,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I am sure you have questions about the events that you have so recently endured.”  
  
“Is Ron alright?” she asked immediately.  
  
“Mr. Weasley has made a full recovery,” said Dumbledore. “I assure you he will suffer no remaining ill effects from his heroic sacrifice.”  
  
“And Neville and Harry are okay?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Then… did Parvati _really_ send you a Howler?”  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled delightedly. “She certainly did.”  
  
Hermione’s face went red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry professor, but she was worried you wouldn’t read it right away otherwise…”  
  
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” he said. “Although I would frown upon it were circumstances otherwise, in this case she must be commended. It was an impressive bit of charmwork, especially for a witch her age.”  
  
Hermione relaxed. After all this, it would have been upsetting to end it all with Parvati getting expelled. “Um. I have one more question I wanted to ask. It’s… about You-Know-Who, sir.”  
  
“Ask away, my dear,” said Dumbledore.  
  
“Is he…?”  
  
“Dead? No, he is not,” he said. “Your actions vanquished him temporarily, but he is not dead. He is a shadow, a shade, a wisp of what he once was. He may return in the future, but it will not be for several years, at least.”  
  
‘Several years’ was not ideal. She would have preferred ‘never’.   
  
“Okay, sir,” she said. “But something else happened. When I touched Quirrell, it was like he was burning apart, like he was turning to ashes. What was that?”  
  
“Hermione, what did Professor McGonagall tell you about the day Voldemort gave you that scar?”  
  
“Er, she said that my mum died trying to protect me, and it gave me a kind of blood protection, and that’s why I live with my Aunt Leanne,” she said. “But I don’t really know what that _means.”_  
  
“What it means, my young friend, is that when your mother willingly gave her life in exchange for yours, and Voldemort—”  
  
She flinched violently. The Headmaster gazed at her steadily from behind his half-moon glasses. “Yes, Voldemort. Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself, and we must always strive to overcome our fears. When Lord Voldemort raised his wand against you, a strange and powerful magic reached out and splintered him apart. It is only by his Dark magic that he survived—by all rights, he should have been killed just as Professor Quirrell was.”  
  
“Strange and powerful magic—what do you mean? Is it something I could learn, to defend myself? But my mother, she was a Muggle. How could she…?”  
  
“It can be learned, yes,” said Dumbledore, “but not, I’m afraid, in a way we readily understand. The magic I am speaking of is both heartbreakingly rare and yet so universal that even Muggles can harness it. I am speaking, Hermione, of love.”  
  
“Love?” she repeated dumbly.  
  
“Yes,” he said simply. “There is no magic so mysterious or so terrifying. It triumphs over all else, if given time and room to grow, and it is also the one power that Voldemort has never known.”  
  
She thought about her friends, and how they had fought a troll for her. She thought about her parents. She thought about Neville, and _his_ parents, and how he had shown her a box full of gum wrappers and it had been clear as daylight how much he loved them. She thought about Harry, Sorted into Slytherin, who despite that had still leapt down the trapdoor and into that dark abyss. She thought about Aunt Leanne, and the taste of chamomile tea, and the two worlds she loved so well.  
  
She wondered what had happened to You-Know-Who that he had never known love.  
  
She realized there was a trickle of tears running down her cheek. She didn’t even know why. She wasn’t sad, exactly, just thinking about everything that had happened, and how her mother had loved her so much she had died. Meanwhile, Dumbledore was pretending to be extremely interested in the tiling along the windowsill.  
  
Once she had gotten herself under control again, she realized she had another question to ask.  
  
“Professor,” she said. “You-Know-Who said something to me… he said that the Stone, and the obstacles, and all of that… he said it was a _test._ For us. For me.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “Voldemort and I have been enemies for a long time. He has always been inclined to see plotting where there is none. However, in this instance, he has hit close to the truth.”  
  
Hermione was taken aback. “Wait, really, sir? It was all just a—?”  
  
“No, not precisely. I was unaware that Quirinus Quirrell had carried Voldemort into this sanctuary, and I asked the staff to design obstacles that would guard the Stone from intruders. But when I noticed you putting together the clues about the Philosopher’s Stone, I must confess that I chose not to dissuade you from your quest. I thought it might prove educational.”  
  
“But why?” she pressed. “Why not tell us to leave it alone, like Hagrid and Professor McGonagall did?”  
  
“Because one day, such practice in exercising your daring and cleverness may save your life,” said Dumbledore. “In fact, it was educational for me as well. I severely underestimated you.”  
  
“Underestimated me? In what way, professor?”  
  
He spread his hands. “I speculated that if you tried to go past the obstacles to the Stone, there was a possibility that you might realize the nature of the Devil’s Snare, reverse the charms on the enchanted keys, puzzle your way through the chess game, and discern the answer to the riddle—all by yourself. Instead, you chose to bring Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Longbottom.”  
  
“So… I didn’t do as well as I should have?” She was very confused.  
  
“On the contrary, Hermione. You exceeded my expectations.” Dumbledore smiled. “Friendship, bravery, trust… some things are more important than mere books and cleverness.”  
  
She nodded slowly. It made sense, in an odd sort of way. “One more thing. The mirror, at the end, it gave me the Stone. How?”  
  
He chuckled. “I confess I do know the answer, but I think I will leave that particular mystery for you to solve. Mysteries so much more interesting when there isn’t an answer key, don’t you think?”  
  
Hermione stared at the sheets, wondering if that was true after all or if it was really just a difference of opinion, but when she looked up again, Dumbledore was gone.  
  
  
*  
  
  
She arrived late to the end-of-year feast. Green and silver tapestries adorned the room, glittering in the candlelight, and at the Slytherin table, Harry was looking very smug.  
  
There was a hush when she walked in, and then everyone began talking at once. She made her way to the Gryffindor table, where Ron and Neville had cleared a spot for her. Parvati smiled at her and went back to talking to Lavender.  
  
At the High Table, Dumbledore cleared his throat.  
  
“Another great year has flown by,” he began, “and another House Cup is to be awarded. As the hourglasses stand right now, Hufflepuff House is in fourth place with three hundred and fifty-two points, Gryffindor House is in third place with three hundred and eighty-two points, Ravenclaw House is in second place with four hundred and twenty-six points, and Slytherin House is in first place with four hundred and eighty-two points.”  
  
The Slytherins all applauded and stamped, and Harry caught Hermione’s eye and called, “Told you!”  
  
She stuck out her tongue at him in a very mature and adult manner.

“Yes, well done, Slytherin, well done,” said Dumbledore, “but certain recent events need to be taken into account.”  
  
Everyone was suddenly very quiet. A number of people at the Slytherin table were looking extremely alarmed.  
  
“First, to Mr. Harry Potter…”  
  
Harry’s expression was best described as a deer caught in the headlights.  
  
“…for outstanding determination and a fantastic feat of flying, I award Slytherin House fifty points,” said Dumbledore.  
  
The Slytherin table erupted in cheers once more. Harry beamed. A burly looking prefect leaned over and slapped him jovially on the back.  
  
“Second, to Mr. Neville Longbottom,” Dumbledore said, and Neville made a funny choking noise, “for quick thinking and commendable loyalty, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”  
  
The Gryffindor’s cheers were so loud they rattled the plates and seemed to shake the very stars overhead. Neville, who had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor, was quite literally bowled over by his housemates all trying to hug him at once.   
  
“Ahem,” called Dumbledore. Once they all had quieted and Hermione had helped Neville back onto the bench, he went on. “Third, to Mr. Ronald Weasley…”  
  
Ron turned so red his face was nearly purple.  
  
“…for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen for many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”  
  
Fred and George yelled until they were hoarse. Hermione heard Percy telling the other prefects, “My brother, you know! That’s my brother! He beat McGonagall’s giant chess set!”  
  
“Fourth,” said Dumbledore, and everyone turned to listen. A number of people swiveled toward Hermione, guessing what was coming. “To Miss Hermione Granger, for cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”  
  
The cheering was stunningly loud, and not only from her own house—Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were applauding as well. Her vision was suddenly obscured by a wall of ecstatic Gryffindors trying to hug her or shake her hand.  
  
Dumbledore raised his hand, and after a long while, the Great Hall became silent.   
  
The students and staff shot glances at one another. What could it be? What other feats were there to acknowledge?  
  
“Finally,” he said, and every student and teacher leaned in to listen, “to Miss Parvati Patil, for clever charmwork and sheer gumption, I award ten points.”  
  
It sounded as if some kind of explosion had taken place. Parvati was engulfed by what seemed like every one of her housemates at once, all shrieking in joy, and it was only when Hermione did the calculations in her head that she started to scream with them.  
  
“Five hundred and forty-two!” she shouted in Neville’s ear. “Slytherin has five hundred and thirty-two—that means—”  
  
“We _won!”_ cried Neville.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Hermione was top of her year. All her friends passed, even Neville, who was happy to the point of stuttering when he saw his Herbology mark. Between that, the defeat of Quirrell, and Gryffindor’s surprise comeback in house points, she was convinced there was absolutely no way her life could get any better.  
  
On the train ride back to King’s Cross, she and Neville and Ron sat in a compartment with Harry. To her surprise, the enmity between Ron and Harry appeared to have vanished overnight. They could now spend hours going over Quidditch statistics without attempting to strangle each other even once. It seemed that there were some things you just couldn’t go through without becoming friends, and going through that trapdoor was one of them.  
  
Parvati stood at the compartment door and chatted briefly before going off to find Lavender, and even Harry’s two Slytherin friends dropped by, although it was so horribly awkward that they went away in a few seconds. Otherwise, Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Harry spent the time enjoying their last chance to use magic before the summer holidays.  
  
When the train finally rolled to the stop, they all groaned in disappointment. Hermione dragged out her goodbyes, and only once all of her friends had left did she push her trolley toward the barrier.  
  
Aunt Leanne was waiting. She saw her niece and she smiled. “I missed you, kiddo,” she said. She gave her a hug.  
  
Hermione breathed in the scent of mint and floral perfume and that special blend of chamomile tea, and she knew that she was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i really, really appreciate comments, so please let me know how you felt about reading this, good or bad.
> 
> i'm still in the process of writing book 2 -- i'll start posting when i'm done.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i've already finished writing the entirety of book 1, and i'll be posting a new chapter every tuesday and friday, mostly to give myself time to work on the next fic in this series and on my other writing.


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